


Beyond

by LiberiAdSomnia



Series: More [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Fluff, Graphic Description of Corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:04:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberiAdSomnia/pseuds/LiberiAdSomnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "More".<br/>(Originally published pre-Series 3 on ff.net)</p>
<p>Sherlock and Molly try to move their relationship forward. There's just one little problem: a serial killer's on the loose, and it's a bit personal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Making Plans

**Author's Note:**

> It might be a good idea to read "More" first, as the characters make a few references to the events there at times.

"JOHN!" Sherlock Holmes hollered up the stairs in the direction of his flatmate's bedroom. "JOHN!"

A very sleepy, and very cross Dr. John Watson trudged down the stairs, yawning, one hand rubbing his eyes, the other pulling down the shirt he'd just managed to pull on. "WHAT? Christ, it's bloody seven in the morning!"

Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, though he held a teacup and a saucer in his hands. He smirked, "That's very flattering, but don't call me that. You'll offend a major religion." At John's eye roll, he walked into the kitchen and gestured for his friend to follow. "I've prepared breakfast."

The former army doctor was surprised to see a full English breakfast waiting for him: heaped on a huge plate he didn't know they owned- - -  _Probably Mrs. Hudson's_ , John thought - - - were bacon, what looked to be poached eggs, fried tomatoes, some sausages and baked beans. On a smaller plate was a pile of toast, a couple of jars of jam beside it, and a steaming mug of tea. John froze in place. He would have been pleased if he didn't know whom he lived with.

He looked up and glared at his flatmate. "What did you do?" He asked warily, pursing his lips.

Sherlock looked up at John from where he'd seated himself in front of his own, considerably smaller, serving of food; his face a picture of innocence. "What?"

The doctor spread his arms, gesturing to the food. "You have never, I repeat, NEVER, made breakfast in the years I've lived with you." He put up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Which begs the question: WHAT have you gotten yourself into now with which you need my help cleaning up? Because I draw the line at helping you dump a dead body."

This time, it was Sherlock who rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I was merely in a good mood and decided to cook us some breakfast. I saw Mrs. Hudson's recipe book again and simply decided to try my hand at it."

Although still wary of his best friend's motives, John decided to risk it.  _No use wasting good food._  He sat himself down and tucked in, savouring the rare treat. He was in the middle of spreading apricot jam on his toast when he heard Sherlock clear his throat. He looked across the table and raised his eyebrows. "I knew it. Go on then, out with it."

"Ineedyourhelptoplanadatewith Molly." Sherlock rushed out while angrily eyeing his toast.

John gaped. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh you heard me. I'm not going to repeat myself." Sherlock replied irritably. His friend chuckled.

"You are. That is, unless of course you think you can manage on your own."

The consulting detective huffed. "Fine." He closed his eyes, bracing himself, and then glared at John. "I need your help to plan my first date with Molly!"

John made to stand, "Hold on, I didn't get my phone, I want a record of that."

"JOHN!"

"Fine, fine." John replied peaceably. "But I thought you said the two of you have already had dinner at that place...Chinese, wasn't it?"

Sherlock deflated. "Well, that...we did. But, it wasn't a  _proper_  date." He took a fork and started poking his share of the bacon. "Molly didn't even realize we were going to go on one. She thought at first I wanted her to drop me off for dinner." When John almost choked on his tea in laughter, he began stabbing the sausage.

"What?! You know this isn't my area." the consulting detective was well on his way to a sulk.

"It really isn't, is it?" John, although highly amused at his best friend's plight, understood how hard it must be for the self-proclaimed sociopath genius to plan for something like this. "Okay. I'll help you."

When Sherlock beamed, the doctor wondered at how much Molly had managed to break down the walls the man before him had laboured all his life, it seemed, to put up. Smiling at the thought, he proceeded to ask his flatmate questions regarding Molly. He knew Sherlock would know her preferences, and John was gratified when he received detailed answers.

* * *

There are good days, bad days, and days somewhere in between. For one Dr. Molly Hooper, however, youngest and only female pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, today was turning out to be the best one yet.

Molly grinned as she carefully made a Y-incision on an elderly man's chest she had received for an autopsy.  _I must look quite mad._  She thought. She knew that if anyone came in through the morgue's double doors and saw her grinning as she sliced open a corpse; they are most likely to stare and then make the entirely logical decision to bolt.

She couldn't help the smile, though. In a span of just several days her life had taken a turn for the better. It seemed to her that after waiting for so long, things were finally going her way. The past week was eventful, to say the least, and unsurprisingly, a certain consulting detective had been with her right at the heart of it.

An hour and a half later, Molly had just put in the last stitch needed to close up the body when she heard her mobile's text alert tone echo from her desk across the room. She carefully put away her things and pulled her gloves off, dispensing of them in the biohazard bin, walked over to the sink to wash her hands, and then grabbed her phone, checking the time as she did.

**Thought we'd go** **  
****on that date tonight.**

**S**

She smiled, remembering the afternoon four days prior which they spent together in her flat. Molly had ended up arriving at work about a half hour late, but seeing as Sherlock had been the cause of delay, she didn't really mind.  _Besides, I get in really early and stay late all the time_ , she had reasoned. Sherlock had gone on a case since that day, and she was glad that apparently he and John had managed to wrap it up so soon. The detective would not have asked her on a date while in the middle of one.  _At least, I don't think he would._

**You mean this morning?**  
 **I'm still on the graveyard shift.** **  
****What's the dress code? :-P**

**x M**

Molly put her mobile down and checked herself in the mirror. It was a good thing she'd decided to wear some of her better clothes today then. She rarely wore skirts, dresses even less, but she was in a good mood. She'd decided to wear a sleeveless navy blue shift dress she'd found on sale at M&S on one of her rare shopping sprees. It stopped just above her knees, which showed off her figure without being provocative, and she'd paired it with a white long sleeved cardigan to keep out the cold of the morgue.

Instead of putting up her hair in its usual ponytail, she'd opted to plait half of it so that the rest of her long hair fell to her shoulders while managing not to obscure her face and interrupt her work. She was in a pair of white ballet flats, and she debated changing into the black high-heeled pumps she knew was somewhere in her locker.

**That emoticon is disturbing.**  
 **Whatever you have on is fine.** **  
****Pick you up later.**

**S**

Molly laughed, shaking her head. She wasn't sure what Sherlock had planned, but was excited nonetheless.

* * *

 

Still in his pyjamas and dressing gown in 221B, Sherlock had stood up and gone into his room to put away his laptop when his phone sounded.

"Message!" John, who had just arrived home from his shift at the A&E and a quick dinner with Mary, shouted from his couch in the sitting room. Sherlock motioned for him to go ahead and read it. Rolling his eyes and grabbing the mobile which had been left sitting precariously on the edge of Sherlock's seat, he clicked it and read the message.

"It's Molly! Says she's excited and that you forgot the 'x'!" He had barely let the words out when Sherlock hurried back out of his room, grabbing the phone from him. Surprised, John asked, "What 'x'?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock squirmed under his friend's gaze. He stepped up and over the coffee table then sat on the sofa, fiddling with his phone.

John put a hand beneath his chin and stared at Sherlock, smirking. "You know, I just realized something." When he didn't receive a response, he continued, "The day we met you said you deduced I had a brother- - - which I'd like to remind you was wrong, it's sister- - - from my phone. And you pointed out that the three 'x's before Clara's name helped indicate her relationship to Harry." A smug grin appeared on his face. "How come you had to ask Molly and me what they meant?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock said evenly, although he avoided meeting his eyes.

Seeing Sherlock's discomfort, John's grin grew wider, and he leaned forward in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Ah, I get it now. That was you trying to flirt with her! And here I thought the opposite sex was such a mystery to you."

Sherlock tried to ignore his teasing. "Of course I knew what the 'x' meant. I just didn't think it likely she meant the same at the time, that's all."

John shook his head, letting out a small grunt of laughter. Seeing Sherlock's face grow stormy, he decided to change the subject. "So you're all done planning your date, then?"

The genius hummed in response and sent off a text before hurriedly standing up and striding towards the bathroom.

"What are you doing?" John called to his friend's retreating back.

Sherlock paused, turned around, and eyed him quizzically. "Obvious. I'm going to prepare."

It was John's turn to look puzzled, "What? For your date?" when Sherlock rolled his eyes, he added, "but doesn't Molly's shift end at 4am? It's not for another- - - " he eyed his watch, "- - - five hours!"

"So?"

"So? Isn't it too early to get started?"

The consulting detective huffed in indignation. "Of course not," he said, before disappearing into the bathroom.

* * *

 

Molly's mobile beeped, and when she checked, there were three messages waiting for her. She laughed after she'd read each one.

**John says you're going out**  
 **on a date with Sherlock...ooh!** **  
****Don't forget to give me an update!**

**:) MM**

.

.

.

**Hey Molls,**  
 **Little insider info:**  
 **Sherlock's spent the**  
 **whole day preparing.** **  
****:-D**

**JW**

.

.

.

**Am looking forward** **  
****to it as well.**

**S**

Molly was about to reply to John and Mary when her phone beeped again.

**Will stop sending 'x's.** **  
****Much prefer the real thing.**

**S**


	2. The "First" Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock cleared his throat before asking, "How did I do?". When Molly stared at him quizzically, he clarified. "Our date. According to my research- - -"

The clock on the wall above the doors showed 03:50 am. Molly had never been so excited by the sight as she was at that moment.

Her shift ends at four, and then, she'd be able to go on a date with Sherlock. A date that he had, according to John, been preparing for the whole of the previous day.

Molly stood up. She'd been able to finish the paperwork on the last autopsy she'd done, and wanted to take advantage of the remaining ten minutes to try and get herself ready. She walked over to the loo and checked that she smelled all right. _Hmmm...can't do anything about that_ , she thought, realizing she still smelt of formaldehyde, albeit very faintly. She took some of her perfume and put some on her wrists and in the hollow of her throat, and hoped they would mask the smell of death it seemed she was never without. She swiped on some lipstick and checked that her hair was still in place.

 _I wish I could've gone home to take a shower_. But the day had been a busy one as usual, and she didn't like putting things off, even for a date. Molly knew Sherlock was used to her anyway, but would have liked to surprise him by looking... _hot._  Molly giggled at herself in the mirror, shaking her head. She found the idea ridiculous, the word was not something she associated with herself.

* * *

Sherlock stood beside the pathologist's desk and fidgeted. He'd arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, and just showed up, not bothering to send a text. He'd hoped to surprise her with the flowers he'd bought for the occasion. He heard the morgue doors open and looked up. He could not help a smile at the sight.

Molly was walking in, still unaware of his presence because she'd been rummaging in her handbag to make sure she hadn't misplaced her car keys. As she unknowingly walked towards him, Sherlock admired the sight of her legs freely. She usually wore loose pants, but her dress, though still professional, showed them off to great effect. Looking back up to her face, he realized she had her hair down, and a sudden lump in his throat necessitated that he clear it, startling the pathologist.

"Oh!" Molly looked up. She caught her breath and smiled up at him. "We match." she added, her eyes twinkling.

Instead of the usual suit shirt, jacket, and trousers, he was wearing a white shirt beneath a dark blue shawl-collared long sleeve cardigan, it's buttons done up, with dark chinos and leather shoes to match. His usually unruly curls were tame for once, and were brushed back.  _He looks_...Molly had never had much trouble describing him before, but she's never seen him like this. _He still looks good, just...different_.

He had a hand behind him and when he brought it out she saw in it a bunch of tall yellow tulips. "They look so cheery!" she grinned, accepting them. "Thank you." she added, giving him a peck on the cheek. She took a large, a couple of clean Erlenmeyer flasks from one of the counters, filled them with water, then set the flowers in them.

Sherlock gave her a small smile, "Thank John" he admitted, "He insisted I give you roses, though I thought the... traditional...meaning for these are more appropriate."

Molly giggled, quirking an eyebrow up at him. "How come?" When he merely shrugged, she made a mental note to conduct an internet search later.

"Ready to leave then?" Sherlock asked, and she nodded, wondering where they could go for a date so early in the morning. He seemed to sense her curiosity and shook his head, asking her not to inquire. "You look nice." He added just as they walked out the doors, making her blush.

* * *

Molly gasped. She'd lived and worked in London for seven years now, and had been to most of the parks, even this one. Perhaps it was because it was so early in the morning, or because of who she was with, but to Molly, St. James's Park has never looked so beautiful. "But it doesn't open until 5am. We're a bit early." she whispered to Sherlock, her hand in his.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Called someone, a former client. He works for the company who maintains each of the eight royal parks in London." he tilted his head to indicate they should move forward.

A table was waiting for them near the lake's edge, with matching chairs that faced each other, and was set for what promised to be a sumptuous meal. They had arrived at an area surrounded by trees. Sherlock sat her down and lit the single candle on the table before getting seated himself. Molly could see he was uncharacteristically nervous, as he fidgeted with the collar of his cardigan.

"I've never seen you like this before." Molly smiled across the table from him. "You look different."

Sherlock squinted at her. "Problem?" he asked, eyeing his clothes. "John dresses like this when he goes on his dates, with usually...favourable...results." he looked back up at her. "You're not pleased?"

Molly's smile widened; she reached out to take the hand he was using to pull at his collar in hers, and sat back so that their hands were atop the table. "You still look good, Sherlock," Molly insisted, "I doubt you'd have any problem even if you wore a burlap sack." She giggled, watching him closely. "But you're uncomfortable. It was really nice of you to make an effort, but I much prefer you being yourself." she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

The consulting detective frowned at their joined hands. "But I'm not very nice. I thought if I was more like John..." he drifted off, pouting. 

"No, no." Molly looked into his eyes before continuing, "If I wanted to date John, or anyone like him, I'm quite certain you would've deduced it by now." She blushed then, but kept her eyes on his. "I-I want Sherlock Holmes, n-not anyone else." _Great, the stutter's back._ She thought, and hoped that the dim light hid what she was sure was a very red face.

Sherlock's chest constricted at her words, something that seemed to happen every time Molly spoke to him these days. His pleasure at her statement was made evident by a simultaneous raising of an eyebrow and a corner of his mouth. He nodded to her, and gestured to the food spread on the table.

As they ate, they traded stories. Apart from their voices, the only sound was the occasional splash in the water somewhere in the distance and the gentle rhythmic hum of crickets hidden in between the trees. Sherlock detailed the last case he and John had taken on. It had necessitated a trip to Wales, which thrilled Molly, who wanted to know everything about it.

She in turn told him about a couple of interesting bodies she'd autopsied the days he was away; and she found that she enjoyed being able to tell tales about her work without the listener cringing. In fact, Sherlock seemed a bit envious when she told him about a particular male who appeared to have an extra lung, and made her promise to show him the reports and photographs she'd taken of the body. All in all, their "dinner" was an amiable one, reminiscent of the meal they had shared at her morgue.

When the meal was over, Sherlock stood, grabbing a bag Molly hadn't noticed was placed under the table, and led her to a spot nearer to the water. He took out a blanket from the bag and spread it out on the grass, gesturing for her to take a seat.

Molly obliged, and Sherlock followed, stretching out beside her. When he glanced at her and saw her slightly shiver, he unbuttoned his cardigan and placed it on her bare legs, before wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She gave him a brief smile and then looked out to the water. "What are we waiting for?"

"The sun is supposed to rise in about..." Sherlock glanced at his watch, "...seven minutes." He glanced down at her and continued. "I thought you might like the view on the water. My research says sunsets are supposed to be more romantic, but your shift schedule and the nature of my work would limit the probability of us being able to go on a date at dusk."

Molly grinned, "I prefer the sunrise, actually. My dad and I, and then my brother when he was big enough, we used to wake up at dawn to run, so it reminds me of those times." she took hold of the arm he had around her and pulled it closer, resting her cheek against it. "Sometimes, when I leave my car at the flat I take the longer route walking home just so I can see the sun break through. When the weather is nice the sky's so breathtaking." She sighed, watching the rapidly lightening sky.

"So are you." Sherlock whispered in her ear, and she turned, meeting his stare. She saw sincerity there, and felt heat prickling her cheeks. Molly attempted to turn away. "T-thank you." she whispered back, growing extremely self-conscious.

He lifted a hand to take a careful but firm hold on her chin, making sure she remained facing him, then met her lips with his. Her grip on his other arm loosened, and Sherlock was disappointed by the loss of contact. But then he felt her turn her body and adjust her legs so that her front faced his. Molly lifted a hand to brush his cheek, and the other landed on his neck, right where it met his shoulder, causing him to groan at the sensation.

Their kiss grew more passionate. He moved his hand from her chin to wrap an arm around her torso. He pulled her so that she was on his lap, and she gasped, feeling his arousal. At the sound, Sherlock silently cursed their lack of privacy, and promised himself that the next date would be different.

The sun broke through the clouds, causing the sky to turn pink, then orange, bathing them in light. Sherlock broke their kiss with a gasp, and Molly moaned in disappointment.

"If we don't stop now..." Sherlock breathed in her ear, and she nodded in understanding, her eyes still closed. She felt his hand on her cheek and opened her eyes, offering him a shy smile.

"You're right," she said, giggling slightly, "the 'x's are poor substitutes."

Molly moved back to sit beside him and lay on her back. "Lie beside me." she said softly, taking his hand in hers. He complied, moving so that her head was on his arm, making sure that his cardigan was moved back to cover her legs; it had been pushed aside in the heat of the moment.

She could feel his heart racing, and knew he could feel her matching pulse, as their hands were joined atop his flat belly.

Sherlock cleared his throat before asking, "How did I do?". When Molly stared at him quizzically, he clarified. "Our date. According to my research- - -"

"It's wonderful." Molly said softly, cutting him off. She looked up at him and continued. She knew he hadn't done this before, and was glad he'd kept it simple. "This is perfect. Although, there's just one more thing." Sherlock pouted as she then sat up.

Molly moved quickly, and further mussed his hair so that it once again became its usual unruly mass, framing his face. "There, you look more like yourself this way." She smiled down at him, playing with a curl. Sherlock chuckled and pulled her back down, this time positioning her so that her head lay on his chest. They stayed there, stretched out on the blanket by the lake, listening to the park come alive around them.

* * *

 When Molly started yawning, Sherlock deemed it time to bring her home. On the way, he received a text from Lestrade, and Molly, sensing a case, insisted he go ahead and take her car, saying she planned to walk to work anyway. "I only really bring this old thing if I'm planning on doing some shopping. Bart's is so near." She reassured him.

Sherlock nodded, and started to open the door on his side.

"You don't have to walk me to my door, Sherlock. Otherwise I wouldn't let you leave." She said mischievously. She received a wide grin from him in return before he gave her one last lingering kiss.

Once inside her flat, she came across her laptop, and remembered to pull up a search on the traditional meaning of tulips. What she read online made her smile.

**_"Tulips: It is said that the black center of the bulbous flower stands for a lover's heart that had been darkened with passion. Although nowadays yellow tulips are used to symbolize cheerfulness and joy, in Victorian times to give a yellow tulip meant that the giver has fallen hopelessly in love with the recipient."_ **


	3. One Message Received

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, Sherlock. N-no. Christ. Just. Here." When Sherlock heard the doctor's voice, he turned, and saw that John had gone pale. He realized just what had made this effect on his friend a split-second before he read the words that were on the page John had ripped out of his notebook to show him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Murder victim description.

Sherlock had driven to the crime scene in Spitalfields using Molly's car, and had sent John a text to meet him there. He stepped out and was greeted by the sight of one highly amused Sgt. Sally Donovan.

"Been to a costume party?" she smirked, eyeing his clothes.

Sherlock merely glanced at her before answering, "Good afternoon, Sally." he started walking towards the shop where every other officer seemed to have gathered. "I see from your reddening palm and smudged lipstick you've broken it off with Anderson. Good for you. You really could do better finding an available man with at least an average IQ." he added rapidly, pausing only to throw Donovan a glance over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, over here!" DI Lestrade had caught sight of the consulting detective and motioned for him to come into the shop. "Took you long enough. What's this then?" Lestrade said as Sherlock approached, looking him up and down. "Don't tell me you've taken to stealing John's clothes!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a kit on a table by the door and pulled them on. "Don't be ridiculous, Lestrade. These are my own clothes. If they were John's the trousers will be too short."

"Hey!" John had arrived a couple of minutes after the consulting detective, and had caught that last remark. Just like Lestrade, John looked at Sherlock's outfit intently, before understanding dawned on his face. "What did she say when she saw this, then?" he asked, gesturing to his friend's clothes.

Sherlock ignored him and proceeded to walk around the small shop. It sold specialty papers and various other custom stationery, and the faint smell of lavender mingled with the scent of blood that permeated the air. In the middle of the room, right before a display case lay the body of a woman, her head bashed in, and her face was hardly recognizable.

There was a moment's silence as Sherlock gazed upon the scene, taking in every detail. When he motioned to John, the former army doctor gingerly sat on his haunches and looked closely at the woman. He squinted, wondering why the woman seemed to look so familiar. Shaking the thought away, he began the usual litany:

"Victim is a female who looks to be in her early thirties, light build, brown hair. I'd say she's about one hundred sixty centimetres tall, weight around fifty-four kilograms. The obvious conclusion for cause of death would be blunt force trauma, but..." John leaned closer and pointed to the dead woman's throat, "...there are contusions on her throat that might point to asphyxiation."

Lestrade, who had been taking notes, paused and looked down at John, who was still on the floor by the body. "So, she was choked to death,  _then_ bludgeoned?"

John shook his head, "Can't tell for sure until an autopsy's been done."

Sherlock, who had been conducting his own examination of the body, spoke up. "Why did you call me here, Inspector? Surely even Anderson can't mess this up. This is hardly a three. I have better things to do." He cut himself off in time before he could add,  _Like stay over at Molly's_.

The detective inspector held out a hand. "There's been a string of murders, Sherlock. This is..." he paused, sighing and putting up his hand to his forehead. "This is the ninth one."

"The ninth one? Nine murders? NINE?" John sputtered, disbelief in his features. "And we've only been told about this now?"

Sherlock, who had been on his way out the shop door, swiftly came back, his brows furrowed. "Yes, Lestrade, why only now? And why wasn't this in any of the papers?" He leaned closer to the detective inspector, studying his face. "Ah! Bureaucratic maneuvering. Your bosses didn't want me involved, did they?" He continued, not waiting for the answer.

The silver-haired detective shrugged his shoulders, looking over at Sherlock helplessly. "They gave the case to Dimmock. I only learned about this after HE came to me after they found the fifth one! I told them we could use your help, but some of my superiors still think coming to you for assistance would diminish the public's faith in NSY." He explained, shaking his head. "I only managed to convince them because this has gone on way too long already. This is the ninth body in a span of two weeks!"

Shocked, John stared at Lestrade with wide eyes. He had always known that Sherlock had been at odds with the police, especially after the fiasco with Richard Brook, aka Jim Moriarty. "What makes you say this is the ninth one in a series of murders? That this is all related?"

"That description you gave of the victim?" Lestrade pointed to the dead body, "It matches that of the eight previous ones."

Upon hearing this, Sherlock's eyes glinted, hinting at his excitement. "What about all the other bodies? I need all the information you can provide, Detective Inspector."

* * *

Back in New Scotland Yard, John sat in a chair in Lestrade's office while the detective inspector, himself seated, handed a thick pile of manila folders to Sherlock. The consulting detective paced the room, glancing over the files quickly, taking in all the information that's been compiled and muttering to himself. "First one was found at Milner St., then Oxford St., Liverpool St., Lombard St., Saint John's Wood, Danvers St., in Kensington Gardens...Exactly where in Kensington Gardens?"

"At the Italian Gardens. Right next to the ram's head urn." Lestrade supplied.

"Right. Then down Edgware Road and now here. John, I need a map."

The DI once again spoke up. "We've already plotted out a map, Sherlock. There's- - - "

"Yes, yes. Here it is." Sherlock cut him off, waving the printout of a London map he'd found between the folders. True enough, all the murder sites have been marked on the map, and after staring at it for a moment, he huffed out in frustration. "I need my violin." was all he said before turning and walking briskly out of the office.

John and Lestrade looked at each other knowingly, and the doctor nodded his goodbye, gathering his coat and hurrying out before his friend could leave him behind.

Catching up to the consulting detective just as he was getting into Molly's car, he was surprised to find his friend with a concerned frown on his face and his hands balled tight.

"What's the matter?" John asked, frowning. When he did not receive a reply, he settled in his seat, puzzled by his friend's reaction.

The first thing Sherlock did upon arrival at 221B was to go straight into his bedroom to change. He emerged soon after wearing his usual garb and proceeded to stand at the window whilst absentmindedly running his bow over his violin, not playing anything in particular.

The doctor, meanwhile, called his girlfriend, intent on warning her they had a case at hand. Mary was mostly amenable to John's adventures with the consulting detective, but had reminded John that he was to inform her if they had a case on, partly so that she wouldn't be surprised if he cancelled dates or disappeared for days on end, and partly for her own peace of mind.

"Hello? Mary? Yes, I'm calling to say...yes, yes. Depends on how long this one takes, it's rather serious. How? Erm, I'll put it this way, Sherlock's playing the violin." John chuckled, listening to Mary's response. "Yes, I know. This could be a seven, possibly an eight." He stood up to walk into the kitchen, pinching his mobile in between his ear and right shoulder so he can fetch the tin of biscuits from the cupboard overhead. He then walked over to the kettle to boil some water for tea, before proceeding to his customary chair by the fireplace.

"What have you been up to? Oh, teaching music? Have I told you I used to play clarinet at school?" ignoring Sherlock's sneer, he continued, "Oh, you're learning the scales? There's an acronym for that, isn't there? Uhm…what is it again? Wait, no, don't tell me…erm…I got it! Every Good Boy Does Fine!"

At this, Sherlock scoffed, scraping his bow vehemently. "That's not an acronym, that's a mnemonic!"

"Oh, wait, Mary, he's at it again. Sorry. Talk to you soon? Yes, well, love you." John, realizing that his flatmate was about to go on one of his rants, ended the call and turned to Sherlock. "What?"

The taller man paced, waving his bow in the air. "Every Good Boy Does Fine. It's a mnemonic, not an acronym. An acronym is when you use the first letters of a set of words to form something that you can pronounce as a single word, for example, in the musical scale, the spaces in between the lines of the staff are F, A, C, E or FACE. If you do the same to the lines, it wouldn't be an acronym; it would be called initialism, because you won't be able to pronounce EGBDF like a single word—OH!" Sherlock abruptly stopped in his tracks, put down the violin and bow, and moved to pick up the file folders he'd haphazardly thrown on the sitting room coffee table once they'd arrived.

As he sat down on the couch, John grabbed his biro and notebook and stood close, looking at the files over Sherlock's shoulder.

"There have been nine victims, John. In just two weeks. These are serial murders, yes, but why so many in such a short span of time? There must be a literal message hidden in here somewhere, a message that would only make sense if the requisite amount of letters have been reached, so that it remains relevant when it's finally received." Sherlock quickly grabbed the papers, rattling off names, "Shannon Williams, Anne Wright, Mary Lewis…"

After the sixth name, John shook his head. "Nope. It's not an acronym, Sherlock, that's a G, V, D. The surnames are all consonants too. What about the place names?" Seeing Sherlock preoccupied with the files, John reached over and plucked the map printout. He listed the crime scene locations while muttering the names to himself.

"Milner St., Oxford, Liverpool, Lombard, Saint John's Wood, Danvers, Kensing- - - oh, uhm what did Lestrade say again? The Italian Gardens?" at Sherlock's absentminded nod he continued… "Edgware Ro- - - _Sherlock_."

"The last one was at Spitalfields. Honestly, John, we've just been there."

"No, Sherlock. N-no. Christ. Just. Here." When Sherlock heard the doctor's voice, he turned, and saw that John had gone pale. He realized just what had made this effect on his friend a split-second before he read the words that were on the page John had ripped out of his notebook to show him.

There, in the doctor's messy handwriting, Sherlock read the words that made his blood run cold and his feet hurry to the door and to the gathering dusk of the street outside, his hands frantically fiddling with his phone.

**M.O.L.L.S.D.I.E.S.**


	4. A Sense of Urgency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'll be safer there. Please, Molly."

Molly lay back in the tub, relishing the last few minutes of relaxation she had left before she has to get up and get ready for work. She heard her mobile's text alert sound from the other room, but decided whoever was sending her a message could wait. She usually didn't indulge herself so, especially since a hot bath would be rendered useless by the combined smells of the dead and laboratory chemicals she would be welcomed with at the morgue later on. She felt like going over her date earlier that day, and wanted the relative quiet of a bath in place of a hurried shower.

Her phone sounded off two more times, and Molly sighed.  _I guess it's time to cut this short,_ she thought.  _That might be something urgent._

As she was getting ready to stand, a loud, insistent knocking issued from her front door, which was followed by… _is that…clicking?_  She wondered, trying her best not to slip in the tub as she stood and made to step out. Several thuds followed and then her bathroom door was flung open and Molly's heart jumped in her throat, causing her to slip.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact of her head hitting either the tub or the floor, when suddenly the sensation of falling stopped, and she felt an arm grab her hip and another the back of her head, pulling her upright. Molly squeaked, opening her eyes on instinct, and chocolate brown met an ocean of blue and green.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked. Her hands flew to her chest, her heart still pounding. "You scared me, almost literally to death!" she exclaimed. Then she remembered her state, and blushed a deep crimson, her eyes widening in embarrassment.

Instead of answering, Sherlock pulled her close, encasing her in a brief but crushing hug, before swiftly letting go and turning around while simultaneously handing her a towel.

"Get dressed. We have to go. I left your car at Baker Street; we'll have to take a cab." He explained, his back turned towards her.

Molly wiped herself off, wrapped herself in the towel, turned to drain the tub, and gently nudged Sherlock. "Where are we going? Why do you sound…strange?" she asked, worried.

Sherlock turned around to face her. She was surprised to find his usually stoic features set in an anxious frown. "I'll explain later. Just hurry, Molly."

She nodded, and walked out and into her bedroom. As she opened her wardrobe doors, Sherlock stood beside her and started taking out her clothes and flinging them towards the bed.

"What are you doing? Sherlock? Hey! What- -" Molly stared helplessly, clutching her towel as the consulting detective started opening her drawers, paying her no mind. He seemed almost manic. Although his face had resumed its usual stoic mask, his eyes shone, and his hands shook with the urgency of his movements.

Growing more anxious by the minute, Molly grabbed the hand that was reaching for her socks and pulled hard so that he was forced to turn towards her. "Sherlock! What's wrong? Why are you doing this?" She lifted a hand to his cheek, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone.

"You weren't answering my texts!" He snapped.  _Stop acting like this!_  He commanded himself.  _You'll only frighten her._  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before speaking again. "You need to go with me to Baker Street." He opened them and looked straight into her eyes before continuing. "I'll explain later. However you need to pack your bags with whatever you think you'll need, and I will call Stamford to inform him you need to take the day off."

Confused, Molly hesitated. "What's going on? W-why? Tell me what happened." She urged gently.

"You'll be safer there. Please, Molly." He stood closer, his eyes on hers. He lifted a hand to her face, smoothing the few tendrils of wet hair that clung to her forehead. "Please." He added, his eyebrows furrowed, "Please."

* * *

In the cab on their way to 221B, Sherlock remained silent; his hand gripped the large bag she had packed with a couple of days' worth of clothing, his other tightly entwined with hers. His eyes darted about, and Molly could tell he was scanning their surroundings even more closely than usual. She chose not to speak.  _This, whatever this is,_ she thought worriedly,  _it's shaken him._  The last time she saw him like this was on the night he'd told her he needed her, and it frightened Molly. She knew Moriarty was dead- - - she had done the autopsy herself- - - but in that moment she started having doubts.  _What if he'd managed to fake his death as well?_

Sherlock sensed her anxiety and shook his head, "It's not him, Molly." He gave her hand in his a brief squeeze before turning back to the window.

"What? A-are you, are you sure?" Molly exclaimed, wringing her hands.

Once they arrived at 221B and Sherlock settled her on the couch, John handed her a cup of tea and began talking. He told her about Lestrade and the case of the nine murdered women. John had seemed odd to Molly, and when he sat down in his chair with a huff and a grimace and told her about the message they'd deciphered, Molly's hand shook so badly she had to put the cup and saucer down.

Sherlock, who had been pacing in front of the window, ruffled his hair irritably. "Of course, we're sure. The murdered women match your general physical characteristics. The moment I saw the woman at Spitalfields, I was reminded of you, however it was not until Lestrade revealed that she was the ninth in a series that I realized the gravity of the situation. I had hoped it simply matched your description, that you simply fit the serial killer's preference for victims, but after the message was uncovered, I'm quite certain they were all merely a prelude to you." He huffed, removed his jacket and threw it across the room, not caring when it landed on the floor. "If only we had been informed of this sooner! But no! Those idiots were simply too arrogant to ask for help, and they wonder why the public is starting to lose faith!"

John sighed, pinched his nose and closed his eyes.  _Here we go._  He was used to Sherlock's verbal rampages, and knew that this time around his best friend had more cause than usual to launch into one. He waited for something else to be thrown across the room, probably a book or a random pile of papers, anticipating the sound of something flying and then a thud as it lands on the floor.

When the consulting detective's rants were followed by mere silence, he opened his eyes and was taken aback by the scene that met them.

Sherlock stood still, his face to the window. Molly had apparently stood up from her seat and now had her arms around his flatmate, her hands clutched atop his middle, her forehead resting on his back. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's hands went to hers, prying them apart and entwining them with both of his. His chest was still heaving from the speed and volume of his earlier rant, but he'd let his eyes close, his head bent forward.

A faint clicking sound turned the former army doctor's attention away from the couple and towards the doorway, and he saw Lestrade with his phone held out, a grin on his face.

John stood and walked over to the Detective Inspector. "Good, you're here."

At the sound of his voice Sherlock and Molly separated, and Sherlock nodded at Lestrade before pulling Molly to sit next to him on the couch.

"What was so urgent?" Lestrade had received a text from both John and Sherlock earlier that evening, asking him to hurry over to the flat. "Couldn't leave earlier, they called us over for a meeting."

John motioned to Sherlock's seat by the fireplace. "You'll need to sit down for this." He waited until Lestrade had settled down before once again launching on the story.

Once Lestrade had been caught up, he had vehemently insisted that Molly should stay over somewhere she won't be alone, even if it meant Baker Street, until the case had been solved. She had tried to protest of course, citing everything from inconvenience for the two men to her ability to defend herself in a fight- - - she'd proven she could once before- - - but John and Lestrade had argued right back.

Sherlock, who had oddly been the one to remain silent during their entire discussion, took advantage of a lull in the conversation. He turned in his seat to look at Molly and uttered a single word. "Please." He didn't touch her, but his eyes searched her face, clearly asking her to agree.

She couldn't find it in her heart to say no.

* * *

That night, Molly lay awake in Sherlock's bed, listening to the sound of the consulting detective's footsteps as he paced in the sitting room. John had gone to Mary's; leaving immediately after Lestrade had gone back to the Yard to give his team an update on the case. Since Molly had slept for some hours earlier in the day in preparation for work, she was nowhere near sleepy, but had chosen to stay in bed to let Sherlock concentrate on the case.

An hour passed, and Molly, both bored and agitated, crept out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to try and prepare some tea for herself. Once done, she settled on a kitchen stool and watched as Sherlock grabbed his violin and sat down with a huff on the couch. He absently plucked the strings, and he was muttering to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.

Several minutes passed, and Molly stood to clean her cup and saucer in the sink. She threw one last look over her shoulder and saw him doing something she'd never seen before.

_Sherlock's nodding off._

Molly realized that he must have not had any sleep yet. They'd had their date just after her graveyard shift earlier that day, and prior to that both he and John had been on a case that lasted four days. She was willing to bet he hadn't slept a wink.

She watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's shoulders slumped, and his head slowly dipped forward. When his hand on the violin grew slack, he suddenly jerked back up, stifling a yawn. Catching his eye, Molly laughed, and reached out a hand.

"Come on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glared at her. "You know I don't sleep when I'm on a case." He plucked a violin string to emphasize his point.

Molly walked over to where he sat; her arms on her hips. "You haven't had any sleep for who knows how long already. You won't be of any use to anyone if you faint from exhaustion." She reached out her hand again, beckoning to him.

"I don't faint." He scowled, eyeing her outstretched hand.

She shook her head. "You will if you don't get some rest."

"I am resting."

Molly sighed. "Fine. Just lay with me then."

When Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, Molly's eyes widened. "No! N-not that way! I meant…I meant come to bed with me." She flustered, flailing her hands.  _Good job, Molly, what he must think of you now!_  "No! I-I meant you could…FINE!" she nearly screamed the last word, frustrated. "FINE! Stay there! But don't blame me if you fall flat on your face because you're too tired to move pro-MMMFFF!" Sherlock swiftly stood and caught her lips with his own, effectively cutting her off.

A couple of minutes later, he pulled back and looked down at her with a cheeky grin. "Come to bed, Molly." He said, before pulling her into the bedroom.


	5. Unexpected Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock," John walked over to where his friend stood, squinting up at him sternly. "That's not Mycroft. We both know he resorts to sending texts to me when you don't reply to his messages. What's going on?"

Molly woke up slowly, relishing the feel of expensive Egyptian cotton against her skin.  _I wonder what the thread count is._  She thought, gently rubbing her cheek against the pillow.

A deep voice sounded right behind her.

"Hmmm."

An arm she hadn't noticed was on her waist tightened around her and pulled, and she felt her back press flush against a warm, solid torso.

For a moment, Molly froze in surprise. But then the events of last night came rushing back, and she smiled.

* * *

_Sherlock had been too tired to do anything but give her one lingering kiss before Molly managed to tuck him in. He had protested, of course, but she managed to convince him with a promise._

" _Sherlock! Just go to sleep!" She pleaded, exasperated._

" _But I've got a case on!" He whined, trying to sit up, only to have Molly push him back down onto the bed. "I never sleep when there's a case on. Time will be much better spent trying to solve it. There would be less likelihood of you getting into any more danger the quicker I am at it!"_

_Molly sighed, "Look, Sherlock. I AM your case, Well, at least a part of it. I'm here, with you. I hardly think whoever's after me will barge in here the moment you close your eyes!"_

_A pout appeared just then. "Just because we're in a relationship now doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."_

_She closed her eyes, praying for patience. "Please, Sherlock. No one can tell you what to do, your own brother, the British Government himself, can't tell you what to do. Consider this a…" she shook her head, searching for words, "…a very insistent suggestion. Besides, you should know, of all people, what a lack of sleep does to a person's cognitive processes. Or do you want me, a doctor, to cite numerous medical research findings regarding this matter?"_

_When Sherlock remained silent but petulant, Molly tried negotiation. "What if I promise not to leave? I won't go anywhere while you're asleep. That'll keep me safe long enough for you to get some rest, consolidate the information you've gathered in that big, brilliant, brain of yours, and then get ready for whatever happens tomorrow, yeah?"_

" _Fine." At that Sherlock pulled her down and closed his eyes, his arms tightly wound around her._

* * *

Molly turned in Sherlock's arms, trying her best not to wake him. She couldn't tell what time it was, since the dark curtains managed to block out any light from filtering inside.

She fought an urge to giggle. Before they became intimate, she had expected him to look like one of those men in the movies, angelic and peaceful, with a slight smile on his lips as he slept. Sherlock didn't look anything like them.

His eyebrows were furrowed, his lips almost in his customary pout, as if he was sternly concentrating on something. It reminded her of when he'd stare down his chosen microscope at the morgue, fiddling with the knobs and mumbling to himself. Sherlock didn't mumble much this morning, though he did hum, his chest vibrating, a pleasant sensation for her.

Molly decided she liked this sight better.

Unable to stop herself, Molly lifted a hand to brush a curl from his face, gently stroking the space between his eyebrows to try and relax them. He did mumble then, and his arms tightened their hold on her, though he didn't wake up.

"Hmmmolly."

* * *

John had returned later that day with shopping. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered what scene would greet him today. Somehow Molly's presence in their flat significantly changed the probability of finding Sherlock in anything John considered to be his normal state.

 _Well, normal for Sherlock._  He was about to open the door when he heard his flatmate's voice. "What? That's ridiculous!"

The doctor opened the door and saw that Sherlock was sitting on the floor in front of his chair with his knees up and his chin on them, pointing at the TV screen. Molly sat above him, her knees folded beneath her, and her shoulders shook with laughter. She had a hand in Sherlock's hair, playing with his curls. "It's meant to be ridiculous! It's Monty Python. That's where the term 'pythonesque' comes from. I can't believe you've never seen a single episode!"

Molly heard the door open and looked up, still grinning. "Oh, hi John! We saved you some brunch. It's in the icebox next to the foot." She stood up, earning a disapproving groan from the self-proclaimed sociopath on the floor, and walked over to help John put away the shopping in the kitchen. "Don't worry, I made sure it was kept in something sealed." She added good-naturedly.

"Ta. But I'll have to save it for later. I've already had breakfast with Mary."

"Told you he would." Sherlock absentmindedly commented from the sitting room.

Before John could retort, a text alert sounded from the kitchen table. "Sherlock, message." He said instead. The consulting detective merely reached out a hand, palm up, though his eyes remained on the telly. Rolling his eyes, he made to grab the phone when the pathologist spoke gently.

"It's over here." She turned her head to meet Sherlock's scowl. "Go on." She added with a smile, tilting her head to indicate the mobile.

To John's surprise, Sherlock actually stood up and sauntered into the kitchen, where he grabbed his mobile with a huff. He stood there, reading the message. His left eyebrow lifted, and John, who had caught it, spread an arm out, silently asking his flatmate what the matter was.

Sensing the sudden quiet, Molly turned to face the two, glancing at each of them in turn. "What? Is something the matter?"

"Nothing. It's only Mycroft, making a nuisance of himself." Sherlock harrumphed, and pocketed his phone before ambling back over to where he'd previously been sitting.

* * *

That evening, Molly insisted on going back to work despite Sherlock's protests. When she remained adamant, he insisted on accompanying her and dragging John along.

"I swear, Sherlock. Sometimes you make me want to break your nose!" Molly exclaimed.

"She can, too." John added, chuckling. "Oh, get off it, Sherlock. Lestrade's got a couple of officers assigned to her already. Besides, you know Mycroft likes her, I'm sure he's got about a dozen men ensuring her safety."

Molly was taken aback. "Wait, Mycroft what?"

It was Sherlock who answered. "Mycroft likes you. Of course he does. You were the one who persuaded me to contact him for when I needed to fake my death, AND you made sure to bake a cake for him whenever he came to visit. I think the latter's the main reason really, he always did have a sweet tooth." He spoke without stopping. "I'll take you to Bart's. I insist."

The pathologist rolled her eyes. "Fine. I'll go get ready."

As she walked away and into Sherlock's bedroom to change, the consulting detective's mobile beeped for the seventh time that day.

"Sherlock," John walked over to where his friend stood, squinting up at him sternly. "That's not Mycroft. We both know he resorts to sending texts to  _me_  when you don't reply to his messages. What's going on?"

Sherlock huffed, then gave his mobile over to the doctor wordlessly, rubbing his chin with irritation. John looked at him quizzically before reading the text.

 **I'm not hungry.** **  
****Let's have dinner.**

It wasn't signed, but John could feel the hair on his nape stand on end. Mouth agape with agitation, he scrolled through the rest of the six other messages, every single one conveying the same sentiment.

"But it...it can't be. Mycroft said, he said- - - " John mumbled, staring at the phone in his hands.

"He said she's dead, yes. That's what he thinks. She isn't." Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stared out the window.

His answer confused John for a bit before something, a memory, clicked inside the doctor's brain. "Mycroft said the only way she could've survived was if you... oh, come on, Sherlock!" His rant was cut off when the mobile in his hand once again beeped, and at the owner's nod he read the message, his eyes widening by the second.

Seeing his friend's reaction, Sherlock reached over and grabbed his mobile back.

 **So you'd rather** **  
****have dinner with Molly?** **  
****Poor man, I did tell you** **  
****about what happens to her.**

Before Sherlock could react, the door to his bedroom opened, and out came Molly, dressed and ready for work. She was rummaging in her oversized bag as she walked towards them, and the consulting detective was grateful for that fact, otherwise she would have seen the alarm still on John's face.

"I'm ready." Molly looked up, and managed only a slight wave at John before Sherlock walked swiftly to her side and wordlessly led her out of the sitting room and down the staircase with his hand on the small of her back. "You're in a hurry." She mumbled as he shepherded her.

Without a word, Sherlock stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned to her, putting both hands to her shoulders, and swiftly leaned down to capture her lips with his. Used to his mood swings, Molly lifted a hand to caress his nape and the other rested on his hip.

She expected a goodbye kiss, but she found herself being pushed backward, until she felt the surface of the solid wall behind her. Sherlock's hands moved, one to cradle the back of her head under the base of her ponytail, the other on her hip, pulling her close so that she was trapped in between his legs.

She gasped when his mouth left hers for a sharp intake of breath, but any attempt at speech was hampered when he roughly captured her bottom lip between his, a low growl emanating from his lips.

Torn between desire and worry, Molly went along at first, kissing him back with fervour. But when she heard him growl, anxiety won: she could hear something else in the sound, and knew that the kiss was for something more. She put her hands on his chest and pushed, making him stop.

"What's wrong? What's going on?" She lifted both her hands and cradled Sherlock's face, willing him to look at her.

Sherlock stilled, his eyes closed, trying to hold himself in check. "Nothing, nothing's wrong. I just…"

Molly shook her head. "No, don't start that. Tell me the truth."

He sighed, leaning his forehead on hers. "I just want you safe. I want you here. With me." He opened his eyes then, meeting hers.

Molly studied his face. She knew he still wasn't telling her everything, but he was telling her the truth. "I know. But I…I can't put my life on hold because of something like this. " She kissed his cheek before pulling back and smiling up at him. "This being in a relationship thing really takes a lot of energy, doesn't it?"

He gave her a tentative smile back and ran a hand through his hair. "It does, but I won't stop."

Molly beamed. "That's good news."

Sherlock took her hand then and led her out the door. Once outside, he ushered Molly into her car and walked over to the driver's seat, "From now on you'll need to use your car wherever you go." At Molly's scowl he added, "Please?" to which she gave rueful grin and a nod.

He looked at the rear view mirror, and his eyes narrowed at what he saw there.

A bit further down the road from them stood a familiar figure in a white dress, and black heels, her hair pinned up, her blood red lips visible even in the distance.

There, with a smile, stood one Irene Adler.


	6. Overdue Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop it, John." Sherlock's voice boomed from across the room. "It's distracting. If you want to ask a question, then ask. There's no use thinking about it so much that it starts to bother me."
> 
> He sighed, used to the consulting detective's moods. "Fine." He put the book down and turned so that he was facing his friend. "Have you told Molly yet?"

After he'd brought Molly to St. Bart's, Sherlock headed  to Scotland Yard and sent a text telling John to meet him there. Once he arrived, he walked straight to Lestrade's office, and paced in front of the DI's desk. He refused to answer any questions the Detective Inspector posed until John had arrived, after which he sat the doctor down and told them both about Irene Adler.

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed when he had finished speaking. "She has quite a bit of a nerve on her, showing her face after she'd made a direct threat towards Molly!"

John stood, shaking his head. "To be honest, I'm quite surprised myself." At Lestrade's puzzled look, he continued. "When we first met her, she didn't seem to me to be a murderess. I mean, sure, she's a dominatrix, inflicts pain for a living, but she's... well…this doesn't seem to me to be her style."

The DI's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "But the victims were choked to death! She could easily have managed that! Besides, you said she might as well have confessed to the crime via text. Also,  _you_  said" he pointed to Sherlock, "you've never taken her up on her, quote-unquote dinner offer. That's motive. "Hell hath no fury" and all that."

At this Sherlock shook his head. "No, no. I've made it clear to her that there was nothing whatsoever between us."

"Why'd you save her life then?" John asked. He had had the question nagging at him ever since he found out. "If you didn't feel anything for her, why did you go through all the trouble of flying to Karachi, saving her life, helping her establish a new identity, and keeping her under Mycroft's radar?"

"That is something worth knowing. Do tell."

The three men turned to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, a hand in his jacket pocket, and the other holding his customary umbrella. Sherlock groaned, rolled his eyes and sat down, his restless hands tapping his knees.

Mycroft smirked before closing the door behind him and walking towards Lestrade's desk. He shook hands with the Detective Inspector, nodded to John, and sat himself down in a chair opposite his brother. No one bothered to question his presence in Scotland Yard, all of them knew he had access to information not even the police were privy to.

No one spoke; three men waited for an answer while the fourth fidgeted under their stare. A few moments later Sherlock let out an impatient sigh and launched into his explanation.

"Do not doubt it when I say that nothing occurred between the Woman and I that would constitute anything… _romantic_  in nature. When I learned of her capture I merely posited that since minds like hers are hard to come by it would be a pity if she met with untimely death. Also, she had collaborated with _Moriarty_ ," he spit out the name venomously, "directly, and could therefore be useful to me if and when the need came, which proved to be true. In the time I was…away" he paused, the events of what had come to be known as  _The Fall_  still brought up unpleasant memories and emotions, "I managed to contact her and received some vital information on the network. But that's it. We didn't even meet in person; it was all through electronic communication."

"And yet she came around today expecting dinner." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother in disapproval. "You might think that nothing happened between the two of you, however she seems to have taken a different view of the matter. You must understand dear brother, that not everything that seems obvious to us…" he didn't finish his statement, and merely waved a hand towards the door, indicating the policemen outside.

John, who was used to the brothers by this point, cleared his throat and turned to Mycroft. "Can't you do something? I don't know, have your men…grab her?"

"Now wait a minute," Lestrade chimed in, "I know she's a suspect, but  _grab_ her?"

Mycroft frowned. "I assure you doctor. Once I received footage of a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Irene Adler loitering around Baker Street earlier today, the security detail assigned to Doctor Hooper was doubled, and men were despatched to take Miss Adler in to custody. Unfortunately the Adler woman has managed to slip away, and, apparently…" Mycroft splayed a hand in the air dramatically, " _disappear."_

* * *

In 221B, John watched as Sherlock sat in the corner of the couch randomly plucking on his violin. His friend has been at it for an hour already, and John was certain that it would last well into the dawn.

He sat down and settled in to read, it being his day off from the A&E. Sherlock had told him there hadn't been any additional texts, and although the doctor wondered what it meant, he was busy worrying about something else.

"Stop it, John." Sherlock's voice boomed from across the room. "It's distracting. If you want to ask a question, then ask. There's no use thinking about it so much that it starts to bother  _me._ "

He sighed, used to the consulting detective's moods. "Fine." He put the book down and turned so that he was facing his friend. "Have you told Molly yet?"

"Told her what?" Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled. "Oh! You mean about the Woman? No. I haven't. There's no reason frighten her further by informing her of the Woman's threat."

At John's exasperated expression, Sherlock, apparently confused, lay his violin carefully down beside him and took to rosining his bow. "How many times do I have to tell you? The Woman and I were never together. If I were to tell Molly anything about her, it would be because it is in her best interest to understand who she's dealing with. Anything other than that is impertinent to the present circumstances."

He was surprised when John threw a seat cushion at him, which landed on his head, nearly making him drop the bow. He turned and glared at John, who was glaring right back.

"Bloody genius, you are! You really do NOT know how this whole relationship thing works, do you?" he wiped his eyes and leaned back so that he reclined in his chair more comfortably. "You have to tell Molly about Irene, Sherlock." He turned his head so that his eyes met Sherlock's. "Trust me on this. She would want to know about it." Concern replaced the frustration on his face. "If you really care for her - - -"

"I love her." Sherlock said simply, and shrugged his shoulders as if John were remiss in not catching on to something so obvious.

That statement startled John into a moment's silence, pleasantly stunned by his best friend's straightforwardness. "Well then, you have to be honest with her. I know you said Irene and you were never  _"together"_ together, but Irene apparently thinks differently. Imagine what Molly would feel if she found out about her from someone else. Not from me, obviously!" he raised a hand when he saw Sherlock bristle, "But these things can't remain hidden for long. I mean, you managed to keep even your brother in the dark, but here we are. I'm not saying it's your fault this is happening. I understand that you did what you did then because you thought it was something that needed to be done. But this, Sherlock, this is something you have to share to the woman with whom you are in a relationship." Done speaking, John settled in his seat and merely raised an eyebrow at his friend, waiting for his response.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stood, walking towards the window. "I'll tell her tonight." He looked back at his friend over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "Satisfied?"

John nodded, and went back to reading his book.

* * *

A few more hours passed. John had gone up to his room to go to sleep, not bothering to say goodnight to Sherlock, who had taken to lying on the couch, his hands underneath his chin, apparently wandering in his Mind Palace. He was still lost in his own thoughts when Molly arrived, bone weary from her shift at the morgue.

She took off her coat and walked to where Sherlock lay, dropping her bag on the coffee table on the way. She stood over him and just stared, taking in his appearance. He was wearing pyjama bottoms with a rumpled shirt, his robe carelessly strewn about him, his feet bare and his hair a wild mess of curls. Molly chuckled, leaned in, and reached out to brush an errant curl away from his closed eyes. When her fingers touched his brow he let out a huff and opened his eyes, immediately focusing on her.

"Hello." He whispered, as his eyes searched her face.

Molly smiled down on him, "Hello." She started to straighten up, but Sherlock reached out; one hand went to her nape and gently pulled her down, while the other landed on her hip and coaxed her to lie down next to him. She obliged, and let Sherlock arrange it so that she was tucked in beside him on the couch, his arm on her wrapped around her torso and waist to secure her place next to him and his hand on her nape bringing her in for a gentle kiss.

Sherlock sighed. "I have to tell you something." He hesitated, his arm on her waist tightened. Molly remained silent, listening to his breathing, and waited.

In the early morning darkness he spoke of Irene Adler: how he came to know of her, the incidents with her phone and her fake body at the morgue, her subsequent "resurrection", and how she had almost outwitted him. He explained how he had saved her life in Karachi, how she had helped in his campaign against Moriarty's web, and, finally, how it seemed that she had threatened Molly that day. He spoke without stopping, as if he wished to have the matter over and done with as soon as possible, and when he was done he stilled, realizing that Molly had not uttered a single word the entire time.

"Molly?" he whispered into her hair, trying to quell the nerves that he did not realize he had. He knew she was still awake, and could feel the tension in her shoulders.

A few minutes passed, and when Molly finally spoke, it was a question. "Why…why do you call her that?" she whispered, turning her head up to look into his eyes, and Sherlock could see her uncertainty, and realized how insecure she felt at that moment. "Why…do you call her The Woman?" she drew in a nervous breath, dreading his answer. "I know you said she called herself that professionally. But…well, whenever you say it, it's, I don't know, it's as if it's something special." She lowered her eyes then, choosing to stare at his jaw line instead. "It's as if…you have a pet name for her. THE Woman. What am I then? A woman? A pathologist?" She hesitated, realizing how she sounded. "I'm sorry, forget it."

Inexplicably relieved, Sherlock lifted a hand to her chin, making her meet his eyes. "You're Molly. My Molly." He gave her a peck on the lips and hugged her tighter. "My Molly. Mine" He repeated, "and," he paused, making sure she was paying attention, "I'm yours."


	7. Molly's Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come on, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can…you know!" She whispered, blushing furiously.

Days passed, and Molly, on both Sherlock and John's insistence, remained in 221B. The murders have stopped, and Lestrade was worried that this was because the murderer had not yet had the opportunity to take Molly from under their noses. Mycroft had maintained her security detail, and it was to everyone's surprise when Sherlock insisted that surveillance should be added to Baker Street and the areas between there and St. Bart's, as well as Molly's work place. Life was far from the usual for the pathologist, but she understood the danger she was in, so took it all in stride, only wondering when the crisis would finally, inevitably, occur.

After their talk about Irene Adler that night on the couch, Molly and Sherlock had become closer. The danger she seemed to pose to Molly's life was still something of a presence, hovering in the air, seeming to bide its time. For Molly, who had never actually met her, the insecurities remained vague and dormant, but overshadowed with the certainty of Sherlock's feelings towards her. Sherlock was aware of this, and tried to reassure her of his sincerity as often as possible.

"Good morning!" John, who had been sipping on a cup of tea in the kitchen, called out when he saw Molly emerge from the bedroom she now shared with Sherlock. He pushed a tray of biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought up in her direction, and pointed to the kettle. "Want a cuppa?"

"Good morning." Molly smiled at him sleepily, walked over to take a biscuit and gratefully took the cup of tea John handed her. "Thank you." She sat on the kitchen stool and sipped, "I hear you've got big plans today?" She and Mary were friends, and now that she was around John so much, they had gotten a lot closer too. Sherlock had informed her last night that he had deduced John's intent to ask Mary to be his wife, something that she knew, from experience, the detective was probably right about.

John blushed and rubbed his nape with his free hand. "I should've known Sherlock would find out, and that he'd tell you."

Molly nodded, grinning. "Don't worry, I made our resident five-year-old" she flicked a thumb in the direction of the bedroom "promise not to say anything. And I won't even hint at it if she texts."

The doctor nodded gratefully, his face still flushed.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen then, wrapped in his dressing gown. "I am not a five-year-old. Obviously." He proceeded to steal Molly's tea, ignoring her protests. "You both have today off." He continued, gripping Molly's hand and lifted it to take a bite out of the biscuit she was holding. "Get out and get started on your proposal plans, I know there are a lot. The receipts for the flowers and candles are all over my desk. I expect you'll need plenty of time to panic and fuss over the arrangements for your proposal venue. A car on the London Eye, wasn't it?"

John sighed and nodded.  _He might have changed a lot, but he also somehow managed to remain the same. Only Sherlock._  He thought, and realized he was grateful. "Actually, everything's just going to be waiting for our date tonight. Mycroft very generously helped out. Said it was his way of thanking me for…well, everything. It's not just a car. He went a bit overboard and had the whole thing reserved for us."

Molly squealed. "Oh my! Really? How nice! Mary's going to be so thrilled!" Her excitement was evident in her bright smile. "You're going to sweep her off her feet!"

The doctor self-consciously ran a hand through his hair and grinned back. "I hope so. And, Molls," he cleared his throat, "I know this isn't exactly perfect timing, with the threats against you and all - - "

"Don't be silly, John. My issues shouldn't factor in to your relationship at all. And frankly, I like good news for a change." She reassured him, then turned to frown up at Sherlock, who was munching on the biscuit she still held in the hand he was clutching."Let go, stop stealing my food." She pouted, trying to pull her hand free.

He ignored her, still firmly gripping her hand with the biscuit in it, while the other brought up his stolen cup of tea to his lips. She waited until he put the cup back down on the kitchen table; then swiftly grabbed his hand which was still holding hers with her free one, clutching it tight. Her hand dropped the biscuit and straightened so that her palm was facing the side, and she then pulled free. She stepped back with an amused grin and was about to turn away to walk towards the kettle when Sherlock, quick as ever, managed to snake an arm around her waist and pulled her close so that she was pressed tightly against his chest.

"And that's my cue to leave." John quickly stepped out of the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement. He grabbed his coat and proceeded down the stairs, shouting a goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on his way out to the street below.

Sherlock smirked. "Good morning." He placed a kiss on her forehead, relaxing his hold on her.

"You git." She replied, placing both hands on his nape to pull him down for a proper kiss.  _You're my git._  She thought, and she could tell he knew exactly what she was thinking, since his smirk widened into a grin, before meeting her lips. It was sweet and chaste, gentle pecks for a time; until each kiss lingered just a bit longer than the one before it. Molly suddenly found herself seated on the kitchen table, Sherlock's hands kneading her hips, her own busily caressing his scalp and his nape, making him whimper.

Although it was true that they have been sleeping in the same bed for almost a week now, they had not had the chance to make love. Molly was often worn out from work, and Sherlock was usually busy trying to track down where Irene Adler had disappeared to, having refused to take another case until this one had been solved. The consulting detective had made it clear that nothing would distract him from his work, and it was only on Molly's insistence that he ate or took time to nap at all. For this reason, the pathologist was surprised that Sherlock was initiating intimacy this morning.

"Sherl-Sherlock?" Molly managed to get out when they broke apart for some air.

"Hmmm?" he asked, capturing her mouth once again, a hand trailing upwards to her shoulder blades, pulling her impossibly closer. "Can't- - " he gulped some air, his breathing ragged, and Molly thrilled at the sight. "I can't hold back, this case is taking too long. I won't wait any more." He abruptly lifted her off the kitchen table, causing her to squeak. She tightened her grip on him as he carried her across the kitchen and in the direction of the bedroom, all the while kissing her deeply and a bit desperately.

She laughed when he nearly lost his balance, in avertedly ramming her back on the bedroom door. "I'm fine." She whispered when he pulled back in worry, thinking she'd been hurt. And she was. She was entirely too enamoured with what they had been doing to even notice. Molly felt beside her, trying to locate the doorknob while resuming their passionate kissing. When she succeeded, she turned it and pushed the door open. Sherlock groaned in approval and stepped forward, heading towards the bed. When Molly sensed the bed behind her, she lowered her legs from around his hip and stood on the mattress, so that she was now taller than the detective.

He tried to make her lie down, but Molly insisted on standing. She pulled back from him and grinned when he pouted in disapproval. He tried to pull her back down to him but she had other plans. Molly took hold of his dressing gown, untying the knot that held it closed, and quickly pulling it off his shoulders.

Sherlock smirked at that and proceeded to lift the oversized t-shirt she was wearing up and over her head, leaving her in her knickers and the pyjama bottom she'd pulled on before she had made her way to the kitchen earlier. He buried his face in her neck, teasing her with tiny nibbles and gently puffs of breath on her skin, his hands slowly rubbing up and down sides, from her waist to the back of her thighs.

Molly retaliated by taking off his shirt in turn, and then running her hand across his clavicle and down the expanse of his chest. She let her hand travel around his torso and leaned forward to reach his lower back and trace circles there, lingering just above the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. Sherlock groaned, impatient, and once again embraced and then guided her so that her upper body was lying on the mattress while her legs dangled over the edge as he leaned over her. He smiled down at her, and she smiled right back, lifting both hands to his face, one hand cupping his cheek, the other brushing the curl that obscured her view of his eyes.

"Sherlock? Molly?" Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded from the sitting room, "You have visitors!" her steps were heard approaching the door neither remembered closing, and knocked, calling out. "Wake up! Hoo-hooo!"

Sherlock's smile disappeared and Molly could not help but laugh when he flopped down on the bed in frustration, partially trapping her underneath him. She shoved him off her and grabbed her shirt, pulling it on.

"And people berate me for poor timing!" he growled, scowling up at Molly as she stood up, straightening her clothes. "Ignore her." He added, reaching out a hand to try and pull her back down.

She nimbly stepped out of his reach and called out "We'll be right out Mrs. H, sorry! Sherlock's still asleep!"

"I am not." Sherlock grumbled, still refusing to move from his spot on the bed while Molly hurriedly changed from her pyjamas into a pair of jeans and a cleaner shirt. She put her messy hair into a loose bun and pulled and prodded Sherlock so that he was finally standing up. She saw his pout and giggled once more, giving him a peck on the cheek and backing up so that he didn't get a chance to pull her into an embrace again.

"Hurry up and change, it could be important."

"But!"

"Come on, the sooner we get this over with the sooner we can…you know!" She whispered, blushing furiously.

He gave her a wicked grin and walked towards the closet, pulling out one of his button-down shirts and a pair of trousers.

Still chuckling, Molly opened the bedroom door and got out. She turned around to carefully close the door. "Sorry about that Mrs. Hudson," she began, "He was being stubborn." She caught sight of Mycroft just inside the door to the sitting room. "Oh, good morning, Mycro-"

She had walked over to offer him a hug when a smaller figure emerged from behind Mycroft. Her smile froze and somehow, she recognized this to be the Woman.

Molly didn't notice Sherlock coming out of the bedroom shortly after, his greeting heavy with sarcasm. "To what do I owe this pleasure, brother?" if he was taken aback by the scene that met him he didn't show it. He stood so that Molly was half hidden behind him, glaring at both Mycroft and Irene.


	8. News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to a halt in front of a newsstand, John put up a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Sherlock! Give the phone to Molly." He spoke, teeth on edge.
> 
> "It's really useless if you're going to be speaking to her about me anyway."

Doctor John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was busy contemplating whether he needed to get a haircut for his big date later on in the evening when he received a text from his best mate, whom he had, not an hour ago, just left behind in the flat.

**Change of plans.** **  
**Your dreams of wedded bliss**   
**will have to wait.**   
**Your presence is required**   
**at Baker St.** **

**-SH**

Before he could so much as open his messenger app to send the consulting detective a scathing reply, he received another one.

**Oh, and we're out of milk.**

**-SH**

Seething, John did a perfectly executed about-face and started walking back up the street while dialling his best friend's girlfriend's mobile number.

"Hello? Hello? Molly?" he exclaimed when the number picked up.

"You are so predictable John. Really." A deep and - - to the good doctor's mind - - highly irritating voice answered.

Coming to a halt in front of a newsstand, John put up a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "Sherlock! Give the phone to Molly." He spoke, teeth on edge.

"It's really useless if you're going to be speaking to her about me anyway."

John took a deep breath and answered in a voice that provoked no further discussion. "Give. The phone. To Molly!"

"But- - -!"

"Hello? John? I'm sorry, I hadn't realized he'd taken my phone. Stop it, Sherlock!" The pathologist's gentle voice breathed through John's mobile, serving to calm the doctor down just a bit. "Sorry, he was trying to take the phone back." she added apologetically.

He let out a deep sigh. "Molly, please tell me Sherlock's joking. Please. I'm going to propose to Mary tonight, please tell me that's going to happen as scheduled?"

"Er- - remember what I told you this morning? About how my issues shouldn't affect your life and Mary's?" John could almost see Molly biting her nails in despair. "Well, you see, it already has."

John started at that. "You don't mean? Mary?"

"NO! No! God, no. She's safe, no threats against her at all, and Mycroft, well you know him, apparently he's had his people looking out for her as well. It's just, a new body's been found, uhm, it was at the base of the- the "

"The London Eye." John spoke along with her. "So it's been closed. Oh…" He began walking again, "I'll have to call her."

"Er, there's no need for that. Myc says he's got people over at her school now, they're going to take her to Baker Street to meet you, and then the two of you can discuss how best to proceed from there." She replied.

 _Myc?_ "Right." John thought it was overkill. After all, Mary didn't fit the victim profile; she was blonde, for starters.

 _Still, prevention is better than cure I suppose._  John thought,  _or in this case: prevention is better than revenge._  "Thanks Molls, I'm heading back. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

He heard Molly breath out a sigh of relief. "Okay, John. Later."

Before he could hang up, he heard a baritone shout. "Don't forget the milk!"

* * *

"I might be mistaken, brother, but shouldn't Lestrade be the messenger? It's his case, after all."

Sherlock was seated at the sofa, facing his brother, who had chosen to remain standing in the middle of the room, leaning on his customary umbrella, while Irene sat in John's seat near the fireplace. Mrs. Hudson had gone back downstairs to resume her baking. Molly, who had moved out to the landing while she was on the phone with John, hesitated in the door to the sitting room, trying to decide whether to sit down or get the kettle going in the kitchen.

The consulting detective, unsurprisingly, noticed her predicament and motioned for her to sit beside him on the couch, and she did, uncomfortable under Irene's close scrutiny. Once she'd seated herself, Sherlock lifted an arm and casually placed it around her shoulders, both to reassure his pathologist, and to show the Woman how exactly things stood.

"And the company you keep, Mycroft." Sherlock continued, "Surely you're aware of this woman's nature." He gestured towards Irene with just a tilt of his chin.

"Lestrade knows of course, and is busy with his troops at the crime scene. He has been kept abreast of this knowledge, and was informed that I am now personally involved."

Sherlock snorted. "When are you not?"

Molly nudged his side with her shoulder. "Oh, c'mon, Sherlock. He's just trying to help. Thank you, Myc. Really." She smiled up at the British Government.

Mycroft gave her one of his rare genuine ones in return. It gave Sherlock the shivers. "Thank you, Molly. It's the least I can do." His smile disappeared as he turned back to the younger Holmes. "As for the company, you would want to pay attention, brother dear." He walked up to the window and looked out to the street below, much like his sibling's habit.

John came into the room then, a large plastic bag in hand. He nodded to his best friend and Molly, and muttered a hurried hello to Mycroft, apparently not noticing Irene in his customary seat. "Let me just get this into the kitchen."

"Oh, I'll help." Molly stood and walked over to accompany him, making Sherlock pout. "I'll get the tea started." She continued, making sure to avoid Irene's eyes as the latter continued to stare at her from beneath perfectly curled eyelashes.

Mycroft watched in amusement at Irene's visibly agitated demeanour as she took in the obvious. "Go on then, Miss Adler. Tell your tale."

The refrigerator door slammed in the kitchen, and a flustered John walked back into the sitting room, a picture of surprise and confusion. "Miss Adler? Wha- -?" He finally caught sight of the Woman and he threw his hands up in exasperation. "Great. Good job Mycroft, bringing bad news AND the one person who your brother's girlfriend should never be in the same room with! Why don't you ever just come round for tea and it not involve murder?"

"I did not murder anyone." Irene remarked, finally. "When Mr. Holmes' men found me, I was out in Paris with MY girlfriend." She turned to Sherlock, meeting his eyes with her own. "Go on, deduce me. I have not been in contact since last year when you consulted me about Moriarty."

"I already have, Miss Adler. Did you really think I require permission?" Sherlock had looked her over closely the moment he realized she was in the flat. She still looked much the same, her hair piled on top of her head in tasteful mimicry of the classic pin-up girls' of a few decades back, her bespoke clothes fitted to show off her figure, her feet in black stilettos, and face perfectly made-up, which included her signature red lipstick.

"I regret to say," he continued, "that you've managed to hold back information from me before; quite surprised you're clothed, actually." He smirked as John cleared his throat uncomfortably, obviously recalling that moment.

Irene smiled slyly. "Really, Mr. Holmes. What would the missus say?" she turned her gaze back to Molly, who had just come back in after setting up the kettle for tea, and was on her way to sit beside Sherlock as the detective had been speaking.

Sherlock smirked. "What? My Molly?" He paused for emphasis, beckoning for Molly to resume her seat beside him with a gentle curve of his lips.

Reassured, Molly sat back down, letting Sherlock once again pull her closer, and turned to speak to Irene for the first time. "I-I know about you already. Sherlock's told me all about how you met." She felt his hand on hers, and continued, feeling even braver. "And just because you were in Paris when Myc's - - I mean, Mycroft's men found you, doesn't make it an alibi. It's been weeks since the killings started; either you or an associate, on your instructions, could have done it. And there haven't been any more these days, not since you've sent that-that text." She felt Sherlock's hand squeeze hers at that, and heard him chuckle.

"My, my, Mr. Holmes. She's feisty, this one, and not a bad mind either." Irene lifted an eyebrow and crossed her legs, leaning back in the chair. "Quite right…Molly, is it?"

"That's Doctor Hooper to you." Sherlock cut in, daggers in his eyes.

Irene lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Fine. You have a point there,  _Doctor Hooper_ " she made sure to emphasize the last two words as she rolled her eyes. "However, I can prove that I was nowhere near London in the past several months. When Sherlock here helped me out of a bind I was in-in Karachi, I made a promise never to go back here, and I've kept my word. I've found a way to make my living in Europe, mainly France, in the last year and a half, plying my trade. I'd go into details, Doctor, but I'm afraid it might scandalize your poor little heart." She noted how all three men in the room glared at her, and pretended not to notice. She turned to face the consulting detective once more. "Your brother can vouch for me."

Mycroft stirred from his place by the window. "I'm afraid so, little brother. When you informed me that you could not locate her through your little network, I decided to try looking for her outside of London. Someone else has been killing off all those women. I've been reliably informed that Miss Adler's been in either France or Germany during that time."

John huffed in disbelief. "And how sure are you of this? Whoever gave you this information, what if she just- to use her words - knows what they like?"

Sherlock chuckled. "John has a point. However, I've been considering the possibility that someone else is responsible for all this, and only wishes to put the blame on Miss Adler. The "Irene Adler" I caught a glimpse of that day was too far away for me to be able to be certain it's her. And if she were anywhere in the city between then and now, I'd have found her sooner. Concerning the text: anyone remotely familiar with her ways can pretend to be her, which also posits that whoever is doing this has interacted with Miss Adler on a personal level."

"Do we really have to be so formal?" Irene leaned forward as she spoke, aiming a seductive half-smile at the consulting detective, disregarding John's disapproving frown, Mycroft's raised eyebrow and Molly's stunned expression.

Sherlock pretended not to notice, pulling on Molly's hand gently, taking her attention away from the Woman and onto himself. When their eyes met, he brought their joined hands on his lips, gave hers a kiss, and asked, "Chinese for lunch? I thought we'd order takeaway and then head out to Angelo's for dinner later. He's been asking when I'd bring you round again; you've managed to charm the poor man."

When Molly nodded in confusion at the sudden change of topic, he smiled then turned to his best friend, "You can join us if you like. And when Mary gets here you can bring her with you, she was expecting a date after all. We can make it a double. Unless my brother insists on joining us and bringing a date of his own. That last one is NOT a suggestion, by the way. I'd rather not suffer indigestion."

John chuckled in approval of his flatmate's behaviour, noticing Irene bristle at his friend's display of affection towards Molly.

"Don't worry, brother. I am far too busy to spend the evening in idle chatter. I will be taking Miss Adler with me, Lestrade and his superiors have been informed that the primary suspect will be under my department's direct supervision from here on out."

Mycroft walked towards Molly then, taking her hand and kissing it goodbye. "A pleasure as always, Molly, we'll have tea again soon, and under better circumstances, I hope."

Molly smiled up at him as Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just say it: you want her to bake one of her cakes again for you."

John chuckled, realizing that Mycroft's kind gestures toward the pathologist are sincere, though he also understood that the older Holmes was doing it front of the Woman to make a point: Doctor Molly Hooper was under his personal protection. Mess with his brother's pathologist, mess with the British Government.


	9. Unraveling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I knew it!" Sherlock jumped up from his place beside Molly on Mrs Hudson's couch and proceeded to pace across the cramped sitting room. "John, we now know who our adversary truly is. It is now only a matter of catching our killer. We'll need Scotland Yard for that. What the police lack in terms of intellectual prowess they make up for with enthusiasm."

A confused Mary Morstan stood just inside the door to the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. She had been in the middle of giving a lecture on Mozart when a co-faculty member knocked on the classroom door and informed her she was needed at the headmaster's office. She looked around and noted Sherlock reading a medical textbook while cradling a napping Molly's head on his lap on the couch, cups of tea they'd apparently been drinking out of sitting forgotten on the coffee table. Across from them, and facing away from her, sat her boyfriend, tapping away on his laptop, apparently looking up restaurants along the Thames.

"Hello sweetie. Would you mind explaining what I'm doing here?"

John looked up and hurried over to her, relief in his features. "Mary…oh, hello. Er, here, sit." He ushered her towards the seat he'd just vacated, and stood near, rubbing the back of his neck. "I assume a bunch of men in suits insisted you come with them and brought you here in a black car, all the while ignoring any questions you posed to them?"

Sherlock snorted derisively from his place in the couch, never taking his eyes off his girlfriend.

Mary raised an eyebrow. "Just a woman, her nose buried in her phone, hardly paid me any attention. The rest of it's spot on though. How did you know that? Explain, please?"

"Anthea." John whispered under his breath. He sighed, gestured for her to give him a moment, and walked off towards the kitchen. He came back with a stool which he placed near and sat on. "You remember that brother Sherlock hates? The one I told you kidnapped me the day he and I met?" She nodded. "Well, you met his…assistant."

"More like 'minion'." Sherlock chimed in, looking disgusted.

"Will you be quiet, while I explain things to my fian-girlfriend!" A flustered former army doctor looked at Mary with wide, anxious eyes. "My girlfriend! Right. She's Mycroft's girlfriend…I mean assistant, and…" John ploughed on, trying to ignore Mary's confused-and curious- expression.

* * *

Molly woke up from her nap to find Sherlock looking down towards her, pouting. "What?" she asked, torn between irritation and amusement.

"You need to get up now. You've been asleep for 32 minutes and I need to send a text."

She sat up and noted Mary and John in the kitchen, chatting away. She turned back towards Sherlock, who had not moved. "I thought you said you need text someone?"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes at her.

"Then why not do it?"

His pout grew into a scowl and he crossed his arms as it did. "My phone's on the mantelpiece next to the skull."

It was Molly's turn to scowl. "You woke me up to get it?"

"No." Sherlock eyed her defiantly.

"I'm not going to get it."

"I know."

"Then why don't you get it?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair in irritation. "My lower extremities are currently experiencing mild paresthesia due to inactivity during the 32 minutes you've been sleeping."

Molly smiled in amusement. "Pins and needles? You could've moved me Sherlock." She stood up and walked to grab Sherlock's mobile from the mantelpiece. "You didn't have to stay absolutely still for half an hour."

"I didn't want to wake you." Sherlock whispered, but Molly caught it nonetheless and she giggled. She walked back towards her detective and handed him his phone, carefully avoiding his legs.

She reached out and put her hand in his curls, "Thank you." She whispered back, gently massaging his scalp, and gave him a peck on the forehead before straightening up. She noted, before she turned away, that Sherlock's scowl had given way to a smirk. To make sure he hadn't just succeeded in manipulating her into bringing him his mobile, she quickly nudged his foot with her own.

Sherlock jerked his foot away with a huff and looked up at her in alarm.

Molly smirked and started to walk towards the kitchen. "Just checking!"

* * *

The afternoon had been spent with John and Molly catching her up on the case, while Sherlock sent out numerous texts, scraped away on his violin, and then sat lost in his Mind Palace. When evening came, Mrs Hudson called from downstairs and insisted they all go down and have dinner with her.

They managed to drag Sherlock along, even though he insisted that eating would only slow him down. His protests were no match for his best friend, his girlfriend and landlady ("Not the housekeeper!") and mother figure however, and they found themselves in the kindly lady's sitting room, nearly overflowing plates in each of their hands.

"Well, don't just scowl at it dear. Eat! I made it just the way I know you like it." Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock's shoulder a gentle nudge. "Go on!"

"Thanks again Mrs H." John smiled gratefully at her.

Mrs Hudson waved it away. "So, if The Woman isn't the one who's been threatening our dear Molly and killing off all those others, then who is it?"

Sherlock answered, ignoring the looks of incredulity from the others. "I have my suspicions. I've informed some people from the Homeless Network. We should be receiving more news soon."

"How could you have informed them? You didn't get out of the flat all day. None of us did. And, hold on, Mrs H, how come you know about Irene Adler?" A confused John looked from one to the other, while Molly and Mary simply stared at the rest, eating their food in attentive silence.

Mrs Hudson patted John's arm reassuringly. "Just because I don't mention anything doesn't mean I don't know what's happening to my boys." She tapped the side of her nose. "I gave that boy across the street a fiver earlier, with a note, just like Sherlock said in his text."

Intrigued, Mary piped up. "What note? What does it say?"

Before Sherlock could give a smug reply, the doorbell rang, and Mrs Hudson hurried to answer it, insisting they continue to eat their fill.

John chuckled. "I swear one of these days we'll find out Mrs Hudson was a former MI5 agent or something.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock turned to Molly with a sly grin. "If anything, she might still be an agent. If I were her boss I wouldn't let her retire. She's too good."

Molly giggled, and all three were unsure whether Sherlock had been joking or not.

"It was that boy. He gave me this." Mrs Hudson handed the piece of paper to Sherlock and settled back down in her seat. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, when she noticed John, Mary and Molly all staring at her with wide eyes.

"I knew it!" Sherlock jumped up from his place beside Molly on Mrs Hudson's couch and proceeded to pace across the cramped sitting room. "John, we now know who our adversary truly is. It is now only a matter of catching our killer. We'll need Scotland Yard for that. What the police lack in terms of intellectual prowess they make up for with enthusiasm."

John rolled his eyes at his friend while Molly asked, "Who is it then?" Both Mrs Hudson and Mary awaited his answer with bated breath.

"John and I once met with this person, though I doubt he'll remember, so many things happened that day. It's- - -" Sherlock's phone rang, cutting him off.

John shook his head. "If I didn't know better I'd say he plans it so that he reveals vital information in the most dramatic way possible." He spoke to the others under his breath, earning a grin from each of the women.

"Brother. Why are you calling? Let me guess, you found out Mrs Hudson baked a cake for us and you're hoping we'd invite you over for you to have some?"

Mrs Hudson started, "That was supposed to be a surprise! For when you've all finished dinner!"

"Flour and vanilla." John and Molly explained at the same time.

Amused, Mary raised an eyebrow and asked, "What?"

John chuckled, and gestured for Molly to continue, which she obliged with a grin. "We could smell a faint hint of vanilla on you. I noticed it when we entered the sitting room earlier. That and the traces of flour on your sleeves gave it away."

Mrs Hudson smiled, a hand on her chest. "Goodness," She looked over at the consulting detective who was still bickering with his brother over the phone. "Sherlock's rubbing off on you two. I don't know whether to be pleased or horrified."

Mary and Molly laughed while John grinned, shaking his head. "I'm nowhere near Sherlock's level, but I tend to pay more attention to things nowadays, ever since we started sharing the flat."

"Good for you." Sherlock had ended the call and walked towards Molly, pulling her up and leading her to the door. "There may be hope for you yet."

"Wait, I haven't had cake yet!" Molly protested feebly as Sherlock pulled her outside the landlady's flat and into the hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and put up both hands to cup her face between them. "You can still have cake, I just need to do something before I leave," He explained softly. "and I don't care for an audience." At that, he swooped down and met her lips in a forceful kiss.

It took a stunned Molly a moment to respond. When she did, she lifted a hand each to his nape and his cheek, savouring the sensations. Sherlock's enthusiasm meant they ran out of breath quickly, and when their lips parted, the pathologist leaned her forehead on his, and concern furrowed her brows. "What…was that…for?" she asked in between gasps.

Sherlock gave her arm a squeeze before straightening. "I have to run. We know who we're dealing with now and if I don't hurry Mycroft will get there before me, might not get answers."

"Promise you'll be careful." Molly understood that no further explanation would be forthcoming, and settled for getting reassurance instead. "If something happens and you can't make it back tonight send me a text so I at least know you're alive. I promise  _I_  won't be texting you, but…you know."

"I promise." The consulting detective nodded, already halfway up the stairs to grab his coat and scarf from 221B. "Come on, John! You'll have to settle for getting a slice of cake later!" he shouted, "And bring your gun!"

* * *

"Where are we Sherlock? Why are we here?" John muttered as he ran huffing after his friend. They had gotten a cab from Baker Street and the consulting detective had said nothing on the way over, except to give the cabbie directions, tapping on his mobile the whole time.

Sherlock turned up an eyebrow at him. "Don't you recognize this place, John? I'd have thought that since this is where you saw a naked woman, got your life threatened with a gun and dodged bullets issuing from a vault it would've been burned into your memory."

"You mean- - -?" John looked around at the buildings closely, finally making out the features of the white infrastructures they'd stopped in front of. "But I thought the killer isn't Irene!" He called out as he followed Sherlock to the door.

"She isn't." Sherlock took hold of the doorknob and turned. The door opened with ease. "Now hurry up, John. We don't want to keep our host waiting." With that he entered, his hands clasped behind his back.

"She? Who's 'she'?" John muttered, trying but failing to make sense of things. He received no answer, but followed closely as the consulting detective checked each room before heading up the stairs.

They found a room at the head of the landing with it's doors open, flickering lights streaming out. "Come in boys. Don't be shy." A woman's voice called from within the room. "I won't bite. Well, not unless you ask nicely."

At Sherlock's nod, he and John walked in to find a woman standing next to a bed, on which lay a figure, another woman in her underwear, bound and gagged.

"Good evening, boys." The woman trained a gun at the bed's occupant, as Sherlock answered in low acknowledgement.

"Kate."


	10. Grudges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock merely shrugged. "I don't recall owing you anything." He said, raising an eyebrow. "As you said, our last and only interaction was the time you let us in the door. This is all rather pointless, don't you think?"

"I'm flattered you remember, Mr. Holmes. Last time we saw each other you were pretending to be a beaten up reverend, and your companion 'saw the whole thing'." The woman came into view. She was dressed much like Irene Adler would have been: her hair artfully styled in a chignon, framing her carefully made up face and with her lips painted blood red, wearing an obviously expensive dress which clung to her figure and showed off her curves and ended in a pair of tall black stilettos.

John blinked at her; he vaguely recalled taking this woman's pulse at one point, but couldn't reconcile the face to the name Sherlock had muttered. The way the woman- - -Kate- - -was styled threw him off, because although this was obviously not Irene, her entire demeanour reminded him of the Woman so much that he had trouble separating the impression she left with what his eyes were seeing.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was nonplussed. "We seem to have caught you at an inopportune moment." He said, gesturing to the bed.

"Oh, her?" Kate inclined her head towards the bed's occupant. "She can wait. She's dead after all."

At her words, John's eyes widened in alarm. He was barely able to stop himself from rushing over to the bound woman to try and check up on her.

Sherlock, without turning towards his friend, sensed his agitation. "You must forgive my friend. He's a doctor you see, and taking care of people is an instinct with him. Don't worry John, she only meant it as a figure of speech" He raised an eyebrow and addressed the bed's occupant. "Fancy seeing you here, Ms. Adler."

Kate tutted and sat on the bed beside Irene, wrapping an arm around her head and placing the gun at her temple. "Oh, it won't be _merely_ a figure of speech for too long." She pursed her lips and her eyes betrayed her rage, her gaze on the two men, and on Sherlock in particular, narrowed and glinting. "And you will pay."

Sherlock merely shrugged. "I don't recall owing you anything." He said, raising an eyebrow. "As you said, our last and _only_ interaction was the time you let us in the door. This is all rather pointless, don't you think?"

"POINTLESS!?" Kate's calm façade fell, and she shook, digging the muzzle of her handgun into Irene's temple, making the latter wince in pain. "I was lied to! I was manipulated into believing that the woman I had faithfully served, whose various indiscretions I bore without complaint, whose lifestyle I encouraged, whose secrets I protected, that the woman I love was dead!" as she spoke her arm around Irene had tightened, and she pulled so that the woman was painfully bent forward, her arms outstretched and tied to the headboard, the gag tied around her mouth visibly pulling and stretching around her face.

Kate paid her no mind, still glaring at the two men before her, her breathing ragged as she spoke. "And why? Because. Of. You." She spit out. "You know what she said the day she met with you at the airport? She turned to me, looked me straight in the eyes, and said she was off to meet with her soul mate. She said you were someone worthy of her. I had thought at the time she was joking, but then she disappeared, and the next thing I know the police were calling, saying that she'd been executed abroad."

John's jaw dropped. _She really did fall in love with the git._ He thought, recalling the mad conversation he had with Irene when she had initially revealed she was alive. _Look at us both, she'd said._ In his mind he and Sherlock were brothers, closer to each other than to each of their siblings. As time had gone by he had learned to take the rumours of homosexuality in stride, laughing it off and sometimes even teasing Molly and Mary with it. He had thought at the time that Irene was merely trying to upset him by making the same accusations. He didn't realize it was her way of confessing her feelings for his best friend.

Said friend sighed, affecting a careless attitude. "I do not see what all of this has to do with me. Her folly is her own, and I had no hand in her actions. I had not done anything to encourage her attentions- - -"

"You saved her life!" Kate cut him off, her face red with fury.

"Hang on," John couldn't help himself, he spoke up and tried to get the agitated woman's attention focused on himself so that Sherlock could – he hoped – do something about their predicament. "Shouldn't you be happy? You'd think someone who loved her would prefer her to be alive rather than beheaded. Why kill the innocent? Why threaten Molly?"

His question was met with hysterical laughter, and the gun swung to point at each of them in turn. "Where do you think she'd been all this time, _doctor?_ She's not the only one who 'knows what people like'. After your friend here miraculously came back from the dead I heard rumours of a woman, THE Woman, who had helped him against one of the most intricate crime syndicates in the world. And then, AND THEN!" Kate stood up, bringing her other hand to join the one holding the gun and gripping it tight. "And then I saw her. I saw her alive and well, and _pining!_ Pining after you, our dear private detective- - "

"Consulting- - -consulting detective." Sherlock rolled his eyes "Honestly! One would think you'd get the details right."

John could have kicked him at that moment.

Kate smirked, "Look at you, so nonchalant, so smug. Tell me. How are things with Molly? Did you like my little message?" her words made Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but otherwise brought no other reaction.

"The police weren't cooperating at first, and I thought for a while there you wouldn't get my message at all, but they came through in the end. I wanted her dead, I wanted you to feel what it was like to have someone you loved disappear so completely from your life. But then Irene came here instead, offering herself up, begging me to leave you alo- - - " a sudden realization seemed to come upon Kate, and she stopped midsentence. She laughed, laughed so hard she didn't notice John pull his gun from where he'd kept it hidden in the waistband at the back of his trousers.

"Put the gun down." John spoke; he widened his stance and carefully aimed at Kate's chest.

Kate's laughter didn't dissipate. Instead she pointed the gun at herself, aiming for her own temple, still shaking with mirth. "How silly of me! This is perfect!" She gestured towards Sherlock and then Irene with her free hand. "Irene is stubborn, Mr. Holmes. Nothing and no one gets to take away what she so desperately wants. And she wants you! She wants you and will not be content pining, and you, you heartless bastard, you will continue to ignore her, up until she is useful, and then you will tempt her, and manipulate her for your purposes, and then put her aside after you're done, but because she wants you she will hang about, and she will drive everyone away, even poor, sweet, Molly Hooper." She laughed harder, her shoulders shaking, and her eyes glaring, but tears were streaming down her face, making her look grotesque.

Her grip on the pistol tightened, and she pressed the gun harder against her own temple. "You will be the cause of each other's misery. Oh, this is better than killing that mouse off! This way she'll be alive but you won't have her. And Irene won't have you. And me? I'll be laughing my head off, watching you two from my front row seats in hell." Just as she looked ready to pull the trigger, a nearby window's glass shattered and then Kate crumpled to the ground in a heap.

John scrambled to the side, pushing Sherlock towards the corner and away from the window's line of sight. "HO-LY SH- - -"

"It's only one of Mycroft's men, John." Sherlock cut him off and then walked towards Kate's slumped body and carefully picked up the gun with the edge of his sleeve. It had slid on the parquet floor and slightly under the bed at her side. He handed it over to his friend and walked back to the bed, lifting the edge of the blanket and bringing it up to cover Irene's spread-eagled form before moving to remove her restraints. "That was a bit anti-climactic." He muttered, just as several men dressed in suits rushed into the room.

John shook his head. "Bastard. Just be thankful none of us died. That is," he nodded towards Kate, who was currently being loaded onto a stretcher. "unless she's dead."

At that Mycroft appeared, his walk serene and his customary umbrella in his right hand, looking for all the world as if he were in the middle of a pleasurable stroll in the park. "She isn't. That's a fast-acting tranquilizer dart you'll find on her neck."

John scoffed, his surprise at Mycroft's presence held back by his disbelief. "I've never seen a tranquilizer bring instant unconsciousness before."

Mycroft smirked. "You wouldn't have. It's not standard issue per se."

"Really, John, it's as if you've never been to Baskerville." Sherlock chimed in from where he stood at the back at the foot of the bed. He'd stopped after untying one of Irene's hands and let one of the other men continue to remove the woman's bindings. He spoke to Mycroft without looking, instead glaring at Irene, who was staring back at him defiantly. "I take it you've dealt with whoever helped Ms. Adler escape your custody?"

His brother hummed in response. "That matter has been…fixed. Kate will be turned over to DI Lestrade and the NSY to be charged for the murders. She on the other hand, well- - "

"It isn't done yet." Irene, who at that point had been freed from the bed and had been given a robe to wear, stood with her hands crossed, "She wasn't working alone."

John sighed. He thought as much.

Sherlock said much the same thing, "Of course. Kate may be a talented murderer, but it's more likely she had some help, preferably from the inside. The crime scenes were too clean. The things we found were clues we were _meant_ to find." He turned to leave, and John rushed after him.

"Wait!" They stopped when Irene called out, and they turned to see her clutching at her robe, looking at each of them in turn. "I can help. Guarantee my freedom and I will assist you." She turned to Sherlock, raising her chin and fixing her gaze on his. "You need me, Sherlock, much like you needed me then." She smiled coyly at him, seemingly unperturbed by the evening's events. "I promise you'll enjoy it."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow while John shook his head in disbelief. 

Before Sherlock could speak however, Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding out her phone towards him. "It's Dr. Hooper. I've informed her of the situation. She insists on waiting for you to come home instead of talking to you over the phone, but since she's so worried I thought you'd want to speak with her." Anthea looked over to Mycroft and received a satisfied grin from her employer, her only reaction to which was a quick nod before walking back out the door, leaving the phone in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock brought the phone to his ear and turned, dismissing Irene altogether. "Don't worry. I'm fine." He spoke gently, entirely focused on listening to Molly's voice as he walked out of the room. He heard her give out a relieved sigh before she answered.

"When Anthea called I thought something terrible had happened!"

Sherlock sped up his pace, making John hurry along after him. He nodded to his brother, and saw Irene being led by two men towards a car, her hands in cuffs.

"We're fine. John and I are on our way back. But Molly, don't let anyone into the flat. Take Mrs. Hudson and Mary and stay inside. It's not over yet- - -" a scream suddenly sounded and was followed by a loud noise, as if something big and heavy had toppled over "Molly! Molly!" Sherlock shouted into the phone, eyes gone wide, his hand holding the mobile visibly shaking.

"Oh, shit." Was all John could mutter.


	11. Discoveries

Molly opened her eyes and instantly regretted it. Her head throbbed with a dull pain, and the bright fluorescent bulbs overhead weren't helping any.  _Drugged.I've been drugged._

She looked down at her wrists. A zip tie had been wound on each of her hands, and then through each other as a sort of makeshift pair of handcuffs. Unlike her hands, her feet were bound together with a single tightly locked zip tie. Still a bit dizzy, she tried to look around. She didn't know whether to be glad or worried when she couldn't locate Mrs. Hudson or Mary. She was about to call out, when the sound of metal grinding on metal was heard, and she saw a huge wooden door sliding to the side, it's rusty wheels protesting the force with which it was being pushed in its groove.

"You're awake, I see." The voice caused Molly to gasp. It sounded familiar and a moment later, it clicked. At once she resolved to be passive, years under her father's tutelage keeping her on edge but alert, knowing it would be better at this point to appear helpless.

"W-w-wha-what? W-why am I h-here? Where-where have you t-taken me?" Her heart pounding and genuinely afraid for herself and her friends, Molly didn't need much motivation to start crying. She wriggled on the floor, trying to move towards the wall and away from her attacker in a show of fear.

The man laughed. "You're very cute when you squeak, Molly." He sat on his haunches and stared at her, a smirk on his face.

* * *

"Damnit, Mycroft!" John's voice rang out. He was seated in the hospital waiting room, both arms tightly wound around a still quivering Mary. He scowled at Mycroft, his eyes blazing. "You had the flat surrounded! Are  _all_  of your men useless?!"

Mycroft merely raised a brow but didn't answer. His supposedly calm exterior was negated only by his white-knuckled hold on the handle of his umbrella. To everyone else he seemed unaffected, but Sherlock knew his brother was seething, and that, when all this is over, a good number of men and women would bear witness to just how the British Government rages. When Mycroft spoke it was with a firm but soothing tone of voice. "It is time I returned to my …premises. You shall receive updates as soon as we have news." With that he eyed Sherlock and nodded curtly, before walking to the hall and out towards his customary black car.

When the phone call with Molly had ended in the alarming way it did, Sherlock had shouted at his mobile while simultaneously wrangling one of the black cars that had come with Mycroft; almost leaving behind John in his haste to return to Baker Street. While on the way back he muttered and raged against his brother's minions' apparent idiocy, and all thought had been focused on Molly.

Once they arrived and found Mrs. Hudson unconscious in the hallway, however, he willed himself to focus.  _It would not do to give in to panic._  Taking deep breaths, he called for an ambulance, and instructed an extremely worried John to sit with their landlady in the hall while he went over to 221A.

He found Mary in the kitchen, gagged and weeping, her hands and feet tightly bound with zip ties. He freed her from her bonds and called out to the doctor, informing him of the situation and receiving a loud curse in response. John was torn between running in to soothe Mary and looking after the now groaning Mrs. Hudson, who'd apparently been hit on the side of the head.

They all came back with Mrs. Hudson to the A&E, and Mary had been checked over and pronounced well considering the circumstances. Sherlock was busy tapping away at his phone, surprising everyone with his continued silence. He walked in endless circles in the room, never taking his eyes off his phone except when John spoke, and as his brother left he turned to John; his bright eyes nearly manic, his pace never faltering.

"Their attacker was someone familiar to Mrs. Hudson at least. There were no signs of forced entry, but when Mrs. Hudson realized that there was something wrong she must have attempted to get him out again, the traces of a man's boot are clearly visible at the entrance, and there are short but forceful streaks in the wooden floor where he'd been digging in his heels, presumably because Mrs. Hudson tried to push him back, at which he pistol-whipped her on the side of the head."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. John and he had fallen victim to that kind of cruel treatment a number of times, and although neither of them suffered any long term effects, he recognized that their landlady's- - no, mother-figure's- - age was against her, and such a thing could lead to nasty complications.

"Mary, you overheard the commotion in the hall and came to the door to check what the matter was. You were met with a man pointing a gun to your head? The carpet showed no struggle in the entryway to 221A."

She nodded, sitting up and out of John's embrace to cling to the doctor's hands instead. "I'm sorry to say I can hardly remember what he looks like. Aside from his brown hair, all I saw was the gun." Mary took a deep breath and squeezed John's hands in hers, reassuring him. "Molly had her back turned towards us, talking on the phone, and she didn't realize what was happening until I screamed, hoping that whoever she was talking to would know we're in trouble and send help."

Sherlock nodded. "At which point your assailant grabbed you- - -" John's face darkened at the words, and one of his hands let go of Mary's to clench into a fist."- - and dragged you with him in Molly's direction. The carpet had streaks of dirt from where your shoes forcefully slid through it. He presumably either pistol-whipped Molly as well, because I saw where she landed, some of her hair was caught between the foot of the couch and the floor. There were a few strands which had been pulled off of her scalp when she was lifted up."

Mary's face scrunched up as if in pain. "No, he-he stabbed her with something. I thought at first he meant to punch her, but then Molly tried to turn around but she was swaying too much, and I knew she'd been drugged."

Sherlock couldn't help but wince, as his hyperactive mind called up images of Molly incapacitated and bound.

"Then he dragged me into the kitchen and told me to tie my feet and then he tied my hands himself, and gagged me with a tea towel." She continued, her eyes tightly closed and her hands gripping John's. "He was wearing gloves, I remember because when he was putting the gag on me I tried to bite him and I tasted rubber."

John, although obviously boiling with rage, managed to soothe Mary, gently running a hand over her shoulders and rubbing her arm. He looked up at Sherlock. "I suppose it's safe to assume this is the man who'd been helping Kate with all those murders, then?"

Before Sherlock could answer the nurse assigned to Mrs. Hudson came in to the waiting room and cleared her throat, "Sorry to interrupt, but the patient is now conscious and is insisting on speaking with "her boys" and says it's urgent. I understand she's been attacked, and I thought given the situation the information might be important."

She had hardly finished speaking before Sherlock was hurrying towards Mrs. Hudson's private room. In the distance, he could hear John thanking the nurse and he and Mary's slower progress down the hall behind him. He hurried in to the room and saw that Mrs. Hudson had her bed adjusted so that she was sitting up, and was reaching out her hands to him as soon as she saw him enter.

In a rare show of tenderness, Sherlock walked to the side of her bed and carefully sat down, gathering the older woman in a gentle embrace. When John entered the room with Mary, Mrs. Hudson reached out a hand to him as well and he stood near, her hand in both of his.

"Oh! My dear boys!" She allowed herself a moment before pulling away to look at them both. "You're okay? Both of you?"

John couldn't hold back a smile at that. "Trust you to worry about us when you're the one in bed in hospital."

"But where are the girls?" Clearly agitated, she turned and tried to peer between them to look at the rest of the room.

Mary shyly came near. "I'm okay but- -"

"But whoever attacked you took Molly with him." Sherlock spoke up, gritting his teeth. "You must tell me who he is."

Mrs. Hudson gasped, fresh tears streaming down her face. "It was the man who came with the books that one time, dear." she clasped her hands to her chest to try and calm down, to no avail.

"The books?" John asked, brows furrowed in confusion as he tried to make sense of the information.

"It was a long time ago, but I never forget a face. I'm sure he's been to the flat on one of your cases." Mrs. Hudson continued, gazing up at Sherlock and John. The former was uncharacteristically quiet, only staring at her with much intensity—it was as if he was willing her to remember, and she couldn't bear to disappoint him. She struggled to explain. "I can't remember his name, but he- he came with the books, the one where you had to sit up all night sifting through crates and crates of them; do you remember?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and his mouth dropped open in realization. "Oh."

"What? Who? Do you mean the case with the Chinese acrobats, and the book code?" John, incredulous, looked from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson. "But that's years ago, is there some way to find out who came along with DI Dimmock? There were at least a handful of men with him that night, carrying the crates. Would the Yard have included who they were in the case files?"

"It's not one of the men who carried the books, John." Sherlock stood, eyes glinting, jaw set, and hands curled into fists at his side. He looked down at Mrs. Hudson and squeezed her hand. "It was the man who  _came with_  the books. It's Dimmock." And with that he was rushing out the door, his phone in hand, already texting Lestrade.

"Oh for God's sake!" John gave Mary a hurried kiss and patted Mrs. Hudson's knee. "I'm going to keep an eye on the git. Mary, please stay here, Mycroft's taken care of everything. You'll both be safer."

He caught up with Sherlock just as he was opening the door to a cab. "Where are we going, Sherlock? And how sure are you that it's Dimmock? Wasn't he the one who approached Greg for help with the case?"

Sherlock, John saw, was shaking, from nerves or anger, he wasn't sure. "Sherlock? It doesn't make sense! Why would he kidnap Molly?"

"It does, John! Can't you SEE?!" The detective, finally, inevitably, lost his composure. "It makes sense! Lestrade said he came to him for help only after the fifth murder. If he were really desperate, why wait until victim number five? It was obviously a serial killer by victim three, and even a dimwit like Dimmock can tell how similar the targets were. Kate said she had a message she wanted to give. If he'd made the decision to let Lestrade in only after the third victim, the message wouldn't quite be a message yet, but by the fifth one they'd already had her name spelled out - Oh! Stupid!" he punched the leather car seat. "MOLLS! They spelled out  _Molls!"_

At John's confused expression, he groaned in exasperation and continued. "It was a clue, John. That it was someone Molly personally knew. Or perhaps was at least familiar with… what is taking so long?" He glared at the driver, as if the latter were the one responsible for the actual distance to their destination.

"And Dimmock would know how to clean up his mess. He's worked with the Homicide Division long enough to know the mistakes murderers make and how to avoid them. Damn." John shook his head in consternation and looked out the cab window. "Where are we going?"

"Scotland Yard." Came the terse reply.


	12. Hide and Seek

_Stutter, Molly._  She thought.  _It might save your life._

"P-please, DI Dimmock, please let me go." She sniffed, hardly certain whether her tears were still pretend any longer. She had no way of knowing how long she's been trapped with the detective, her drugged state coupled with the harsh overhead lights forced her to squint, and she was unable to take in the details of her surroundings. All she knew was that it must be pretty large and cavernous: the sound of the metal chair's foot dragging on the floor as Dimmock pulled it towards him seemed to echo in the space.

Dimmock sat down about a foot or so from her and rested his elbows on his knees. "We both know I won't do that Miss Hooper. By now your  _boyfriend_ —" he said the last word in clear distaste, "—would have been informed that I was the one who took you. That nosy housekeeper of his recognized me, so I'm sure she'll remember, that is, if she's already awake."

Molly's heart pounded, and she tried to remember whether she saw Mrs. Hudson before she lost consciousness or not. "What-what have y-you done to her?!" she burst out, still battling with her headache. "Why are y-you doing this?"

"I'm not going to sit here and explain my motives like a token movie villain." Dimmock sighed, running his hand through his hair. He looked for all the world as if he were watching a boring programme on the telly. "Just know that it's nothing to do with you. This isn't your fault, but I've gone too far now to stop."

With that he stood back up and turned to leave. "I don't mean to make you suffer, Molls. But you see, Sherlock Holmes? He needs to understand suffering." He paused, standing over her, looking her over. "We both know how this ends. We'll wait until Holmes gets here. And then… well." The look he gave her then was earnest instead of menacing, and for some reason, Molly thought it was the most frightening thing she'd ever seen.

* * *

"Dimmock?" Lestrade, incredulous, stood from his seat behind his desk and ran a hand through his silver hair. "Sherlock, are you sure?"

"YES!" Sherlock hollered, pacing through the detective inspector's office, unable to contain himself. John knew that Sherlock must have sent a text to his brother, as well as to members of this Homeless Network, and the lack of response is driving the consulting detective up the wall.

John clarified, "Greg, Mrs. Hudson's used to people coming in and out of the flat, and she's come to expect that not all of them have good intentions. She couldn't recall his name, but remembered that he came in for the Blind Banker case." John sat himself down next to the desk and tapped his fingers on it. "She's not our landlady for nothing."

DI Lestrade, clearly alarmed, picked up the telephone and started hollering orders. He muttered to John when he reached an apparent lull in the telephone conversation. "This is bad. When the perpetrator's one of our own, it's even worse. They know all the tricks, and Dimmock might be a bit slow on the uptake, but he's been with the Met for almost a decade now, and he's been keen to learn." 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was on his own mobile; placing calls to people John knew he only usually sent texts to. John felt a bit useless, just sitting there and staring at them, worrying about Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and hoping that Molly, someone so instrumental to his best friend's happiness, was somehow fine.

It was just as Lestrade was ending the latest call that Sally Donovan walked in the door to his office, eyes wide with apprehension. "Is it true?"

Sherlock paid her no mind. He was busy muttering "Useless! Stupid!" to his mobile, still hurriedly pacing in the confined space like a madman, ruffling his hair in frustration and glaring at anyone who dared suggest he take a seat or calm down.

Lestrade merely motioned for the rest of the room's occupants to follow him as he rushed towards one of the bigger conference rooms they had been using for deliberations.

John, about to follow Lestrade and the rest of the cops, found himself tugged towards the opposite direction.

"We have no time for meetings, John. Dimmock's been spotted." Sherlock said urgently, pocketing his mobile and tightening his scarf.

Astonished, John pulled at Sherlock's sleeve until he came to a stop. "We should tell them." He motioned to Lestrade's retreating back. "Sherlock!"

"There's no time!"

"But this is important! We can't leave the Met out!"

Stopping abruptly, Sherlock turned, his eyes shooting daggers, and hissed, "It IS  _important, w_ hich is why I will not waste precious time sitting around a conference table discussing idiotic theories with  _IMBECILES!_ "

* * *

_Deep breaths. Try and keep calm._  

Molly squinted under the harsh lights. Dimmock had walked off, presumably to check the premises. She knew it may be her only opportunity for escape.

 _Sherlock will find you. But in the meantime..._  "Zip ties? Really?" Molly whispered to herself, just as she took one plastic tie between her teeth and pulled, tightening it around her right wrist. She did the same thing to the other one, so that the ties were snug, and then made sure that the small plastic rectangle that served as a lock for each were in the space between her wrists.

"Please work. Please work!" she prayed, steeling herself with a deep breath. She lifted her arms above her head, her elbows out to the back and side, wide enough to clear her hips, and after one more deep pull of air, she swiftly brought them down towards her stomach while simultaneously pulling her wrists apart. With a sharp crack one of the ties broke, and she used the pointed end of the broken one to shimmy off the lock of the one still hanging off her left wrist. She then bent down to do the same to the single tie binding her ankles before straightening up and listening for any sign that Dimmock had heard her.

Hearing nothing, Molly stood up, still a bit dizzy, and tried to make sense of her location. The place was big and yawning, and beyond the bright light of the bulbs directly above where she was seated nothing was visible. She carefully walked in the direction opposite the one Dimmock had taken when he'd left, hoping for at least some place to hide until Sherlock gets to wherever she'd been taken.

 _A closet? A box? Anything?_  She thought, starting to panic. Tears were streaming down her face, and though she tried to keep quiet, she was too distraught to stop crying. She walked further, and found to her relief that she was in a warehouse. She hurriedly walked towards what appears to be the back end, hoping for an exit, when she heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming near. Desperate, she hurried up a set of stairs as quietly as she could manage. When she got to the top, she realized that the "second floor hallway" was more like an indoor balcony, with rooms on one side and open metal railing on the other. If she stood up, it was likely that she would be visible from below.

Fighting the urge to curse, Molly got on all fours and carefully crawled her way down the corridor, surreptitiously tapping on the doors as she passed, hoping for an open one.

"Dammit, Molly!" She heard Dimmock cry from below. He raised his gun in the air and fired a single shot which was amplified in the building, causing her to flinch and freeze. She heard his hurried footsteps, their pounding echoing in the space, and she couldn't tell whether he was coming nearer or not. She continued on her way, still lightly pushing on doors, when at last she came to the penultimate door.

 _Don't squeak, don't squeak, oh please be well-oiled and silent—silent as the grave I will be avoiding if you don't squeak._  She prayed, carefully pushing the door, and then crawling in.

Once inside the room she stood up and silently locked it, glad to find another bolt to slide into place. Looking around the surprisingly well appointed room, she saw a large wooden desk, a large white carpet rug which appeared to be made out of real fur, tall shelves set against one side of the room, and a large oil painting hanging on the wall opposite. She walked nearer, and gasped.

"Irene Adler!"

There was no mistaking that the woman on the portrait was meant to be  _The_  Woman. It was all there: the seductive eyes, a slight smirk on her blood-red lips, the carefully styled hair. She had been painted sitting on a chaise-lounge with her scantily clad back halfway turned towards the viewer, her face turned and slightly bowed so that two-thirds of her face was visible, her right arm resting on her side as if to support her weight, as the other bent up towards her face with her knuckles lightly brushing her chin.

Bewildered, Molly turned away.  _Now is not the time to be insecure ---NOR impressed, Molly Hooper._  She weaved her way between tasteful leather couches towards the desk, hoping for a landline she could use to call Sherlock. She had no idea where she was, but she was sure the genius would find a way to get to her.

Outside, Dimmock called out, fury evident in his voice. "There's no use hiding! There's only one way out of here, and it's through me!"

She could hear him running up the metal stairs, the sound of his shoes hitting the steps like a clock ticking in her ears.

"We're not leaving this place alive. You're only prolonging the inevitable."

She heard a loud thud, a door being pushed open, she reckoned, as Dimmock continued to speak.

"I have keys to all the rooms here, Molls. I wasn't trying to hide for long. We're both waiting for Holmes to arrive."

Molly covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to sob. There was no telephone, all there were - were a few file folders and a paperweight shaped like a spider. She tried rummaging through the drawers, and found only a steel letter opener.

 _Oh, god, not even five inches long!_  She thought hysterically, gripping the ornate handle and furiously wiping her tears. Molly knew that if Dimmock came through the door, he'd think she'd pick the desk as her hiding place, so she frantically turned towards the rest of the room, her chest heaving from the force of her breaths.

At that moment the lock in the door clicked, and the knob started to turn.

* * *

"Gallion Road, the Docklands!" Sherlock had bellowed as soon as he got inside the cab. John was barely seated before they were careening down the street at the consulting detective's urging.

John's phone started ringing. The doctor ignored Sherlock's pointed glare and answered. "Greg, listen—no, Greg, please—GREG!" He shouted into his mobile, trying to make himself heard over the indignant DI's curses. "Listen! Sherlock's found a lead, and we're following it. We're headed to the Docklands—yes, I know that's almost a half hour away—no, we're not going back to the Yard for police escort. You know how Sherlock gets, and honestly, I'm with him on this—yes, yes, fine, yes, I'm with him on almost everything-the point is—THE POINT IS-we know where to find Dimmock and we're headed there. I suggest you get the cavalry and follow." With that he rang off, pocketed his mobile and checked that his gun— _A gun I definitely do NOT own_. His mind added, unnecessarily-was still in his coat.

Several tense minutes later, they stopped at a large warehouse at the end of Albert Basin Way. Sherlock immediately got out and ran off towards the entrance to the compound, leaving John to throw money at the cabbie and run after him. He caught up to the detective, who was standing in the middle of the compound, turning around and trying to determine which of the large structures to enter.

John was about to point to the one on their left when they heard a shot being fired from the building immediately ahead of them.

Eyes wide and jaw firmly set, Sherlock ran at full speed towards the sound, through the surprisingly unlocked employee entrance and into the warehouse floor, John hot at his heels.

Sherlock took in the broken and unlocked zip ties on the floor, and was immediately grateful for Molly's father's insistence on her training in at least basic self-defence. He looked at the floor and was able to discern footprints in the dust, heading deeper into the building and towards a flight of stairs.

John remained near, his back hunched and his pistol out, following Sherlock while himself scanning the perimeter, his Army training kicking in.

They had just gotten up the stairs when they heard an angry growl and a muffled scream. No longer trying to remain quiet, Sherlock ran towards the sound, "MOLLY!" he called out. "MOLLY!"

Sherlock came to a stop just beyond the room's open door and was greeted by the sight of Dimmock clutching Molly to himself. One arm wrapped around Molly's shoulders, and the other holding a gun to her temple, the policeman's cheek was bleeding: Molly had managed to leave a gash that stretched from below the outer corner of his right eye and curved down to just above the corner of his upper lip. Sherlock could see the letter opener at the floor by their feet.

"Come in, Sherlock. We've been waiting long enough. You too, John. I know you're there with him, you're always with him, I thought for sure it would be you we'd have to target at the beginning. You both better show yourselves, otherwise you know what will happen.

It was John who replied. "It's over, Dimmock. Lestrade and the rest know we're here. They're right behind us, you won't get away with this." He panted, training his gun at Dimmock's head.

Laughing, Dimmock pressed his gun harder against Molly's temple, causing her to groan in pain. "I know what happens next. I know how I'll be  _dealt with_. It ends here. Everything, everything."

"Look, Dimmock, whatever Kate's told you, whatever it is, we can help, we can. We know she's coerced you into doing all this for her somehow. She's locked up, and we can help. It's over. Just—just put the gun down, yeah?" John spoke calmly and entered the room after Sherlock, moving to the side so that there was a sizeable distance between him and the detective.

"It's not over until I've had my say!" Shaking visibly, Dimmock crushed Molly to him, his nails digging into her shoulder. "Kate? You think Kate used me? That this is all hers? And here I thought you were brilliant!"

Sherlock cut him off. "I see you're a bit confused. Well, nothing new really.  _I'm_  the brilliant one, John is-" he paused, cocking an eyebrow at the doctor "—the gun. No, no.  _I_  don't believe you were coerced by anyone. It was more like a meeting of the minds, you and Kate, and don't bother explaining how that came about, I'm really not interested. You met, realized you both held a grudge, came up with a plan of action—the coded message was crude but one must commend your efforts—and now you've kidnapped my girlfriend. Whom, I must point out, you were stupid enough to only restrain using zip ties when you must have heard from Lestrade that she's the daughter of a policeman and have therefore inevitably been given at least rudimentary lessons in self-defence. She escaped for a while, and then managed to leave an evidence of her struggles on your person in the form of that slice on your right cheek. Commendable work, by the way." He inclined his head towards Molly. "And here we are, standing around in what appears to be Kate's base of operations for her more  _salacious_  pursuits, you with a gun pointed at my Molly's head, and me with my best friend who happens to be a sharpshooter—say hello John- with  _his_  gun pointed at yours, and the rest of Scotland Yard only a couple of minutes behind us, being led by a man who considers Molly his own kin. There's no version of this where you come out the winner, Dimmock, so I have a suggestion: Put. Your gun. Down."

Dimmock was flabbergasted. "Sherlock Holmes! What a nerve you have! You still don't get it do you? I don't intend on surviving this." He gritted his teeth.

"Look at you! Your girlfriend in mortal danger and still showing off! You can't help it, can you? You just have to be a smartarse! Waltzing your way around into crime scenes, convincing Lestrade to let you in wherever you like, calling people dumb, pretending not to care about who gets the credit, but then your little soldier-" at this John bristles in indignation "-writes up his blog. And then people like me, who've worked so hard for so long to become a cop, to be respected, to be RECOGNIZED, we're pushed aside in favour of the man in the scarf and the great big coat and the STUPID HAT!" He swung the gun towards Sherlock and pulled the trigger.

It seemed to Molly in that moment that everything ran in half-time:

She saw Dimmock's arm swing out towards Sherlock, hear John call out his name in alarm and fire off a shot of his own, while Sherlock himself ducked and then dove forward, grabbing the edge of the rug and then pulling. This caused both Molly and her kidnapper to lose their balance, his arm around her loosening as he instinctively let's go to try and find something to hold on to.

Fortunately, Molly was able to keep her presence of mind, and angled her body away from Dimmock. She fell on her hands and knees, and she'd barely caught her breath when she saw Dimmock once again raise his hand and aim another shot in their direction. Panicking, she stood up and ran the short distance towards Sherlock, who in turn was hurrying towards her, and she tried to put herself between him and the gun.

Seeing her intention, Sherlock gripped her to him just as the shot rang out, and turned them both so that he was covering her. Another shot was fired, this time by a panting Lestrade, who had arrived at the door just in time to see Dimmock shoot at the couple that second time.

"Molly? Molly!" One of Sherlock's hands cupped her cheek, while the other wrapped around her waist as they fell to the floor.

She blinked up at him for a moment, unable to answer, just scrutinizing what she could see of him-his face, his neck, his shoulder… "You've been hit." She whispered, her eyes widening in fear.

"It's nothing. Nothing. Just a scratch." Sherlock held her close, clutching her to him, willing himself to calm down, telling himself over and over:  _She's all right. She's safe now. She's safe. She's safe._

"Are you sure?" she asked, her voice muffled, the worry evident. "Are you sure you're all right?"

He sighed into her hair. "I am now."

* * *

Once the scene has been cleared and the paramedics had gone in - Dimmock received a gunshot wound to his left arm and a concussion from where he hit his head on the floor –and Molly and John had insisted that Sherlock have his shoulder looked at while they gave their testimonies, Lestrade came up to give Molly a tight hug.

"You had me worried for a minute there." He whispered into her ear before letting go. "If your Da were still around he'd have given me a black eye by now." He added, smiling ruefully in the direction of the ambulance holding Dimmock's unconscious form.

Molly wrapped then shock blanket she'd been given tighter around herself and smiled up at him. "I wouldn't let him. And besides, he's too fond of you to do such a thing."

She looked around, waiting for Sherlock and John to finish giving their statements. "By the way, I didn't know they let you have guns again." She added, turning back to the DI.

Lestrade gave her a lopsided grin. "Special dispensation.  _Someone_  wanted someone other than a certain retired Army doctor to be able to defend his baby brother when necessary. It also helps that my pistol and said retired Army doctor's are almost identical, so that all shots fired can be accounted for in the police reports." He let out a great puff of air. "Listen, Molly, I know you two are in love, but I need to ask you: Are you sure about this? Sherlock will always have someone after him, and as long as you're in a relationship with him you'll be a target. Aren't you scared?" he glanced at Sherlock, who seemed to be arguing with Sally,  _again_.

"I am. I'd be lying if I said that I don't worry. And I know you do too. But Greg…" she took his hand in one of hers and looked up at him earnestly. "… I know you want me to be safe. But I also know you want me to be happy…and I am, I really am."

"If you say so. I'll still worry, mind. But I trust your judgement."" The DI sighed and squeezed her hand. "You're intelligent. Appalling taste in men, but intelligent." He added with a small chuckle.

"Says the man who got divorced, remarried to the same woman, and then divorced again." Sherlock spoke from behind Lestrade, one eyebrow raised. John was right behind him, but paying them no mind, as he was currently speaking on the phone with Mary, reassuring her that they'd be home soon.

The consulting detective, not waiting for a riposte, wrapped an arm around Molly and turned towards the road.

Speaking so that only she could hear, he asked. "Home?"

Smiling, she drew closer. "Home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to Icecat62 and Kehwie: thanks for your review of the last chapter! I'm glad you liked that little twist. :)
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


	13. Sweet and Awkward

John was only barely able to catch up to them as they settled into the cab. "I've called Mary, she says Mrs. Hudson's fallen asleep, so you two better put off going to hospital until tomorrow morning."

"Oh!" Molly bit her lower lip. "I've actually forgotten about visiting her…and Mary! Oh my goodness!" Feeling terrible, she looked about to cry. "How terrible of me!"

Sherlock glared at John while trying to reassure Molly, wrapping an arm about her shoulders and grasping her free hand in one of his.  _Look what you've done._ His narrowed eyes seemed to say to John. "John?" he prompted, an eyebrow raised. The 'Fix it' was left unsaid.

"No, no, Molly. None of that." The good doctor reassured her. "You've had a terrible fright, and I know for a fact that you've not forgotten about them. You asked me what happened to them while we were walking down the stairs, remember?" He really hated seeing a woman cry, especially when it's someone he considers a friend, and especially when said friend's boyfriend was glaring daggers at him. "I just thought you might attempt to visit tonight, and you need some rest."

Said boyfriend gave the doctor a curt nod, as if to say  _Yes, that'll do._  "We'll visit Mrs. Hudson in the morning, and by the fact that John has chosen to delay our departure instead of getting into the cab with us, he'll be fetching Mary from hospital and will be staying home with her at her flat. It's fine." He squeezed her hand in his. Bending his head so that only she could hear he added, "Please, love, don't worry." At Molly's nod, he turned and bade John goodbye, then gave the cabbie his address.

* * *

As soon as they were in 221B, Molly walked straight in to the bedroom and started gathering her things, folding her dirty laundry and taking out the few clothes she'd hung in Sherlock's wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked from the doorway to his bedroom, and when she looked up at him, she saw that he was genuinely puzzled.

So was she. "Uhm, getting ready?" As she spoke she continued neatly folding her clothes and stacking the still clean ones on the bed where she sat.

Her boyfriend walked up to her but kept standing, looming. "For what?" He kept looking at her hands as she folded, following their motions, and tilting his head in what seemed to be utter confusion.

 _What? Is he having a slow day?_  She thought, wondering just how much anesthetic he'd been given while the paramedics cleaned up his wound earlier in the evening. "For tomorrow." She answered, standing up to get her bag from under the bed where Sherlock had tossed it. "I have work again tomorrow, so I'll need to get my things back to the flat in the morning. I hope you don't mind me staying over again tonight. I'll haul my things over there in the morning, maybe clean up a little bit. I wonder how my plants are; I forgot to ask you to leave them with my neighbours. Goodness, I've become forgetful! That'll be first on my checklist for tomorrow."

Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension, and then his pout came out. "No." was all he said before walking out and heading towards the kitchen.

Dumbfounded, Molly rushed to her feet to follow him. "What do you mean, 'no'?"

When the consulting detective opted to fill the kettle with water from the tap instead of giving her an answer, she walked up to him and gently tugged his sleeve. "Sherlock? You'll have to elaborate, because I'm not a genius and will need your words." She looked up at his still frowning face.

Standing still, he looked at her hands still gripping his sleeve, his head bent forward so that his eyes are hidden. "Did I do something wrong? Do you not want to live here?" he asked in lieu of an answer. Hearing Molly's gasp of surprise, he continued quickly. "John's been showing signs of wanting to move in with Mary these past few weeks. He's been subconsciously leaving more of his things at hers: when he does his laundry, the load is less than half of what it used to, his favourite mug, which I know isn't broken, hasn't made an appearance in the past week, and you know he's been planning to propose to her the last two."

Molly gently slid her hand from his sleeve to his palm, and entwined her fingers with his. "Sherlock," speaking softly, she endeavoured to catch his gaze. "Are you asking me to move in because you don't want to be lonely?"

At her words, his eyes abruptly lifted to her face and his eyebrows furrowed. "No." fidgeting, he continued. "I merely posit that since he is planning to leave soon to stay with Mary, you wouldn't need to worry about the flat being crowded, or intruding on his privacy, and he in ours. I've previously expressed my desire for cohabitation. There is ample evidence that the flat itself is to your liking; you are comfortable here, and although it's a bit further away from St. Bart's, you've had no previous issues with your commute. Therefore the only reason you wouldn't want to retain residence is because I did something you are averse to and I-"

Molly's face had broke out into a wide smile he hadn't caught yet: he's too busy fiddling with the fingers on the hand she had in his as he was rapidly speaking. She lifted her free hand to his neck, pulling him down to her even as she stood on tip toe, cutting him off with a firm kiss on his lips. "I won't move in with you," seeing his frown get worse, she giggled and continued, "but only because moving isn't as easy as packing a bag and leaving, AND" she emphasised the last word when Sherlock looked about to interrupt, "I think it's probably too soon."

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock parried "We've known each other for years, Molly, even longer than I've known John. He moved in with me on the day we met. It worked out fine." He turned and pulled her into the sitting room, sitting down on the sofa and then urging her to sit beside him. Just as she settled, he turned and laid his head on her lap, looking up at her.

Molly laughed, brushing Sherlock's stray curls away from his face. "Is this the part where you tell me that you and John dated after all?"

Pouting, he huffed. "I'm serious, Molly."

Sighing, Molly leaned forward and kissed his nose. "I know, Sherlock. And, believe me, I want to…eventually."  _I really do._ She thought.  _If only I could stop waiting for the other shoe to drop._  "It's just…it's a big step." She added with a rueful smile.

Sherlock, seeming to read something in her expression, lifted a hand to cup her cheek. "Against my better judgement I will not push the issue. However, be assured of this: I am not one to change my mind, Molly Hooper. Especially…" He traced her cheekbone with his thumb, his voice lowering to a whisper. "… not about this." His hand moved to her nape, gently guiding her face closer to his, even as he tried to lift his head up to meet her halfway.

The kiss was both sweet and a little awkward.  _Just like us_. Molly thought, unable to stop herself from smiling. She cradled his head with one hand, and tangled the other with his free hand. "Thank you." She whispered, closing her eyes as he deepened their kiss.


	14. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, dear, it is a bit quick." Mrs. Hudson interjected, used enough to his outbursts to be able to calmly watch as he wore the floor down with his manic pacing. "You've only been together for a several weeks now. She'll need her time."

Mrs. Martha Hudson knows people tend to think of her as, at worst, a daft old woman with a shady past, and at best, a well-meaning mother hen with a tendency for over sharing. She supposes that she has done nothing to discourage this common perception of her, of which her two tenants-her boys-are also prone to labour under. To be quite honest, she doesn't really care one way or another. Her years in America has taught her that what people perceive of others are rarely accurate, and that sometimes -  _sometimes_  - it is useful to cultivate a reputation that, while not entirely deceptive, is perhaps a bit  _skewed._

She's no Sherlock, but she notices… things.

She noticed, for example, that although Sherlock and Molly seemed to be their usual selves when they came to visit her that morning: Molly with her shy smiles and twinkling eyes, and Sherlock with his usual mask of indifference and contentiousness, that her genius boy had something on his mind other than his usual puzzles. There was something that made him just a bit sad for her taste, which, if Mrs. Hudson had any say in it,  _simply would not do._

As soon as the young pathologist left for home and insisted Sherlock stay with his landlady instead, Mrs. Hudson adjusted her hospital bed so that she was more or less sitting up, fiddled with her blanket, and cleared her throat. There was still some time yet before the nurse comes in with news on whether she'd be allowed to go home already or not.

"Sherlock," she called him in her usual singsong way.

"Hmmm?" he answered absentmindedly. He'd pushed together three visitor's chairs and was haphazardly lying across them much the same way he would on the sofa at home.

"Is there something the matter with Molly?" she asked gently, looking at him intently. She could tell that she'd caught him off guard by the way he suddenly stilled, tension filling his prone form.

He hummed in return, feigning disinterest. "What would make you ask that, Mrs. Hudson? How can anything be the matter?" he lifted his hands to his chin, affecting deep thought.

Curious and just a little bit impatient, Mrs. Hudson lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms, "Don't give me that, Sherlock. I know you know  _I know_  you're worried about something." She sighed, "Honestly, for a genius one would think you'd know better than that by now."

At her words, Sherlock abruptly sat up and got to his feet, trying to work off his nervous energy by pacing the distance between the door and the hospital bed.

"It's stupid!" he growled out, jaw working furiously. "I've asked her to move in with me and she wouldn't!" At this his hands started their usual waving about, seeming to illustrate the emotions he keeps insisting he has none, or recently, very little of. "One would think that by now I have provided ample evidence of my sincerity towards her and this- _relationship_. We've even had a trial of sorts, because in all this she had stayed over at Baker Street! Even she says it's not anything I've done which she finds objectionable, just that she feels it's too soon!"

"Well, dear, it is a bit quick." Mrs. Hudson interjected, used enough to his outbursts to be able to calmly watch as he wore the floor down with his manic pacing. "You've only been together for a several weeks now. She'll need her time."

"Time! Fine! Time, I understand, however illogical that argument is because of the fact that we've known each other for several _years_ already. What I can't comprehend is why she seems to believe that I'll change my mind about this, and that somehow sharing a flat with me will bring it about sooner!" At this he whirled around the room, frustration evident in every turn. "And yes, before you ask, I told her I don't intend on pushing the issue, that I will wait, and endeavoured to reassure her of my sincerity! But it doesn't mean that this-this doubt of  _herself_  doesn't rile me!"

_My, my. He has got it bad._  Mrs. Hudson could not help a little giggle at the consulting detective's expense. When he turned to glare at her, she merely waved a hand to him. "Well, goodness, dear. You see, but you do not observe."

His irritated and slightly alarmed expression made her heave an even deeper sigh, and she gestured for him to sit next to her.

In a rare show of obedience, Sherlock pulled over one of the chairs and sat next to her bed. "This is hardly a time for laughter." He pouted.

"Maybe just a little," Unable to resist the temptation, she gave a couple of gentle pats on his cheek. "I know this is not exactly anything you're used to. But, dear, you must know how insecure you've made her." She smiled at him ruefully. "You were really horrible to her that one Christmas, and I know, I know," she hurried along, seeing that he was about to protest, "You've been splendid to her in your way ever since you came back from the dead. But that Christmas was the only one I was privy to, and you've known each other for  _years_   _and years_ …I would imagine that was not a one-time thing. I can tell she believes what you're saying to her now, that girl would be the last person  _on earth_  to ever run out of faith in you. But words are hard to forget, dear. Why, when Frank and I started having problems, I remember looking at myself in the mirror and seeing a version of me  _he'd_  painted with his insults instead of what was actually there. Sometimes I even blamed myself for the bruises I'd get! You've been lovely to her lately, but you'd still have to give her time." She brushed his curls away from his frowning face and tried to reassure him. "I know you hate waiting, but don't you think she's worth it?"

And when Sherlock Holmes, her eccentric tenant, her genius detective, stared up at her looking like a sad little boy and said "She is. She really is.", Mrs. Hudson clutched her hands to her chest and grinned. _Ooh! He's even repeating himself!_

"Well then, dear, there's nothing for it. There's a reason clichés exist. And this one is fitting:" Mrs. Hudson paused, smiling down at her darling boy, "Good things come to those who  _wait_."

* * *

 

**Just got in to work. :)** **  
** **xM**

**I trust the commute** ****  
**was uneventful?** **  
** **S**

**You mean aside from** ****  
**the sight of the homeless** ****  
**who seem to appear** ****  
**around every street corner?** ****  
**Really uneventful.** **  
** **M**

**Thank you, Sherlock.** **  
** **xxxM**

**Have a good day, honey.** **  
** **S**

_What?!_  Molly thought, almost dropping the folders she'd been moving to the desk with one hand. She carefully placed them on the desk and hurriedly sent a reply, slightly alarmed.

**Okay, who are you** ****  
**and what are you doing** ****  
**with Sherlock's phone?** **  
** **What have you done to him?**

**If you've done something to him,** ****  
**It's best you be informed:** ****  
**I am very, VERY handy with** **  
** **a scalpel.**

**Answer honestly or** ****  
**I will sick his elder brother,** ****  
**his soldier best friend,** **  
** **and his DI mentor on you.**

Just as she sent the last text message, her phone rang, showing Sherlock's number and picture. "Who is this?!" She demanded as she put the mobile to her ear.

Sherlock's indignant baritone answered in his usual rapid-fire manner. "Lestrade is NOT my mentor! If anything,  _I_  mentor  _him_. And I don't think his progress can go any slower. If it did he would be at a standstill! Honestly, Molly, I hardly think the threat of violence is appropriate reaction to a wish for 'a good day'. And John says  _I_  have terrible manners."

Caught off-guard, Molly giggled in spite of herself, and sat on her desk. "Sorry, Sherlock. It's just, well, you called me 'honey'."

"Granted, it is a bit juvenile. I was trying it out of a list to see which ones we would both be comfortable with." She could  _hear_  his pout. "I didn't expect to receive a threat to my safety." He added, evidently running out of steam.

Molly giggled again; hand on her nape, "It's just...unexpected…and a bit… a bit strange. Honestly, Sherlock, we don't have to have one. We're in our thirties; I thought you might think it's all a tad embarrassing."

He huffed. "I was not about to call you pet names in public, shouting "poppet" or "sugar" at every opportunity." He paused, and Molly thought he suddenly seemed unsure. "I was given to believe that it's what people in this kind of a relationship do. Apparently, I was mistaken." With that, he ended the call.

Molly, staring down at her mobile and gnawing her lower lip, thought,  _Oh, dear._

* * *

Sherlock flung himself on the sofa, barely able to keep from throwing his mobile across the room. Frowning, he placed it on the coffee table and faced the couch cushions, hugging his knees and closing his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He had come home with Mrs. Hudson earlier that day, and John, who had met them at the flat, insisted on staying with her for just a few more minutes, drinking tea.

_And probably gossiping about me and Molly_. Sherlock thought spitefully.  _He probably already knows Molly declined moving in with me._

Just then, John appeared in the doorway, already removing his coat and then walking over to his seat by the fireplace, only giving him a passing glance. He sat down and stretched his legs, then took his laptop from the side table and opened it, deciding to check his email for any cases. He knew Sherlock's obvious bad mood would be at least partially alleviated with a case.

When Sherlock's mobile pinged with a message, John watched with amusement as his flatmate reached out behind himself and groped along the coffee table to take his phone, still facing the cushions.

**I'm sorry, Sherlock.** ****  
**I wasn't being mean.** ****  
**At least I didn't intend to.** ****  
**I was just really taken off guard.** **  
** **xM**

Sherlock hadn't finished reading the first, when a few others came in.

"Does Lestrade have a case again already?" John asked, curiosity piqued.

The consulting detective threw him a glare over his shoulder. "No."

**Forgive me, please?** **  
** **xM**

**Honey?** **  
** **xM**

**Sherlock, darling?**

Sherlock snorted in spite of himself.

"You okay?" John inquired, a bit worried at his sudden change of mood without it seemingly having anything to do with any recent murders.

"Yes." Sherlock snapped. "Mind your own business, John."

"You're one to talk." John grumbled, focusing back on his laptop.

**Sweetheart?**

_This is getting out of hand._ Sherlock typed out a reply and tried not to grin.

**Sweetheart? Really?** **  
** **S**

**You don't like it?** ****  
**What about 'baby'?** **  
** **:)**

**You said yourself:** ****  
**'We're in our thirties.'** **  
** **S**

**Sweetie?** ****  
**Chouchou?** ****  
**Mon cher?** ****  
**Help me out here!** **  
** **You said you had a list.**

**I thought you were apologizing.** **  
** **S**

**I didn't give you** **  
** **such a hard time!**

Sherlock only waited, grinning at his mobile.

**I'm sorry.  
** **Please, love?**

**xM** **  
**

Deciding to finally let her off the hook, Sherlock replied.

**I expect an actual kiss later.** **  
** **S**

**You'll get one anyway.  
** **But okay. ;-)**

**xM**

* * *

_What just happened?_  Molly asked herself, shaking her head as she set aside her mobile.

Sometimes she has to remind herself that this is real, that this is her life now.  _Who would have thought?_  She wished she could have said yes to Sherlock's offer, seeing instances like this as proof positive that they are a better fit now, that this thing between them could work, that they are now both mature enough to handle each other. Sometimes she stops in the middle of whatever it is she's doing and just thinks about how different and yet the same her life seems to be. Sometimes Molly thinks she could never be happier than she is at that point in her life.

And she's often scared out of her wits.

But Mary, sweet, wonderful, unpredictable Mary, has told her all good things  _are._

_I'm not rushing into this._  Molly knew it was a big step, moving in with Sherlock Holmes.  _I'm not rushing, but I WILL be brave._


	15. Persuasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You didn't say hello."

Life for Molly has returned to her version of normal during the next couple of weeks. She submitted reports, conducted lab tests and dissections, and frequently broke her schedule whenever a certain genius consulting detective came in to Bart's for his own cases and personal scientific pursuits.

That said genius now also often gave her a discreet smile, a meaningful glance, or, once, scared her to near hysterics by emerging from a supply cupboard without warning only to pull her in and snog her senseless, was to her mind, a sincerely welcome improvement.

Sherlock, for his part, has decided to overtly drop the subject of moving in to Baker Street, knowing that, much like John, his pathologist is now - if not immune - at least more resistant to his brand of aggressive persuasion.

Reluctant to exploit their relatively new found intimacy, Sherlock, still convinced that Molly belongs in 221B, refrained from bringing up his proposition altogether in conversation. He did, however, pointedly clear an entire bedside table for Molly's things, reorganize his wardrobe to fit the few clothes he insisted she leave with him, and add to the bathroom supplies so that it now included her brand of soap, shampoo, conditioner, and lotion.

He had barely stopped himself from purchasing what he knew to be her birth control pills, thinking that it might be "a bit not good" to do so.

When John finally talked to him about possibly moving out of Baker Street and in with Mary, Sherlock, though a bit disconcerted at this major change to his life, gave his best friend his sincere well wishes, and quietly started plans of his own.

* * *

"Oh, hello dearie!" Mrs. Hudson chirped at Molly as they happened upon each other at the doorstep to 221B.

"Good morning, Mrs. H!" Molly greeted in return, always pleased to see her. "Here, let me help you with that." she added, not waiting for Mrs. Hudson's assent, and gathered some of the bags from the kindly lady.

"That's hardly necessary, but thank you all the same." Mrs. Hudson opened the door and quickly led the way into her home, gesturing for the younger woman to set the bags down on the coffee table in the sitting room. "Tea, dear?" she asked, beaming at Molly, a finger to her lip, and was answered with another smile and a gently shaking head.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I've got to get going. Sherlock called me over to help him get rid of some of the...well... _things_  he'd managed to sneak away last Tuesday." she raised her hand, showing the elderly woman the small cooler bearing a biohazard sticker in her hand.

Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose. "You mean the  _eyes_ , dear? Yes, I saw him fiddling with those yesterday. There he was, sitting in the kitchen, eyeball in one hand and a large needle in the other, looking for all the world like Dr. Frankenstein! I swear one of these days he'll manage to finally give me a heart attack."

Molly gave her sympathetic grin and a soft pat on the arm. "I doubt that, Mrs. H. I'm sure you'll outlive us all." she said, walking out the door and into the hallway.

"Heaven forbid!" came Mrs. Hudson's singsong reprimand.

Just then Sherlock's baritone sounded from up the stairs. "Molly!"

Exchanging a knowing glance with the landlady, Molly hurried upstairs.

Once she entered the flat, she headed straight towards the kitchen.

"We've talked about this, Sherlock! Stop stealing body parts from the morgue. You know I'd get in trouble if my bosses found out." she pulled out the gloves she'd stuck in her pocket before she left St. Bart's and put them on, looking around the kitchen for the offending items.

Sherlock scowled. He remained standing in the middle of the sitting room; but where he had once been staring at the various pictures and pieces of paper he'd pinned to the far wall along the top of the sofa, he had now turned to glare at Molly in the kitchen.

"You know I have clearance. That's the advantage of having the British Government for an older brother. Also, they all know that you and I are in a relationship, and unless they are complete idiots, would realize that the same advantage also extends to you."

"Fine, fine. But the least you could do is return them yourself. You're the one who took them." she answered, busy neatly packing the orbs into the cooler. Once done, she carefully peeled off the gloves and disposed of them in Sherlock's biohazard bin, the one John had insisted Sherlock purchase after the flatmates had a huge row over the state of the kitchen about three years ago.

"A case came in." he said, scowl deepening. He furrowed his eyebrows at her and left his hands hanging by his sides, continuing to glare.

Confused, Molly moved nearer, eyebrow raised. "Why are you looking at me like that? Shouldn't I be the one who's pissed off at you? It's a good thing my shift was cut short today because Stamford wanted to train the new hire himself, otherwise I would've been leaving in the middle of my shift just so I can fetch things from here." she wasn't really angry at him, but didn't want to encourage this behaviour.  _Gosh, he can be such a child sometimes._  She thought, wondering why  _he_  looked like  _she'd_  done something extremely annoying.

Sherlock closed the distance and managed to pull her to him-both quickly, and somehow carefully- then nudged her cheek with his nose. "You didn't say hello." he mumbled darkly, staring down at her, frown still in place.

"What?" her confusion cleared only when she saw his eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back again.  _Bloody bastard, making me giddy._  she thought, unable to keep a corner of her mouth from twitching upwards and into the beginnings of a grin. She slowly shook her head, half amused, and gave him a simple chaste peck on the corner of his mouth, something she'd gotten into the habit of doing as a form of greeting. "Hello" she added, for good measure.

As she kissed him, Sherlock reciprocated with his own greeting: his hand slid into hers and gently squeezed, while the other came up to touch her hip. "Hmm." he grumbled, still a bit put out.

Before Molly stepped back from their brief embrace he whispered. "Apologies. I had intended to return the specimens today, but a case turned up. "

"Oh, so should we cancel the lunch out tomorrow?" Molly asked earnestly.

Sherlock sighed, he had been looking forward to introducing Molly to Malay cuisine via another restaurant owner who owes him a favour. "I'm certain that this case won't take long, but with the sheer number of people involved, the probability of getting this done before lunch tomorrow is highly unlikely."

"Don't worry, we can do it some other time. Besides, you didn't take the case Gregson was offering last Tuesday just so we can still go and see the penguins." She grinned up at him.

He sniffed with disdain. "It wasn't even a three." 

Molly merely shook her head, knowing he'd turned it down because she'd hardly talked about anything but the penguins days before their date. "So what's this one about, then?"

He tilted his head in the direction of the wall, "A serial killer who is in the habit of sewing on necrotic tissue from an unknown female onto the cheeks of his victims presumably while they are still alive. So far the only connection they have is that they all work in the medical field. John even knows some of them from the conferences he used to attend."

Not letting go of Sherlock's hand in hers, she stood beside him and grimaced at the papers and photos pinned to the wall. "So he's out there trying to interview them?" she remarked.

He nodded, pulling her closer to his side, his free hand rubbing through his curls.

"I noticed you have a new fridge." she absently commented, eyes still fixed on the photos, trying to determine why some of the faces seemed so familiar.

Sherlock hummed again, "It's for food."

"And the old one wasn't?" she asked, amused.

The consulting detective waved a dismissive hand. "John always complained about possible contamination."

"I would think so."

"Hmmm." was all he said in reply.

It was at that moment that Molly's mind clicked. "Hang on, aren't those Dr. Stamwell and the CEO for a pharmaceutical company...uhm...Philip Gryazny?"

Sherlock turned to her. "I'm not surprised you know about Dr. Stamwell, he's a well published surgeon. But how are you familiar with Gryazny? He's a relative newcomer to the business."

Molly blushed. "I just remembered something from about a year ago. One of my friends from Uni, Cora, who had gone to work for Gryazny, mentioned something about this new project she got in to. She was pretty drunk, so I'm sure she mentioned things she wasn't supposed to." She bit her lower lip, suddenly uncertain.

"Go on." her genius prompted her, slightly squeezing her hand.

"Well, you see, she'd asked to meet up with me, for commiserating, things like that. At the time she was a bit scared that she might lose her job." At this, Molly pointed to the wall. "Dr. Stamwell had been hired to lead a team of researchers. The project was called, uhm, Aceso. I remember because she was laughing at the fact that the name was taken off of Greek mythology and she found it so pretentious, calling them all "arses-oh!" She said the company was trying to beat the competition by formulating medicine that could appeal both to the medical and cosmetic markets. By the time Cora came in, they were already conducting clinical trials. It's meant for patients who had received skin grafts; it was supposed to help with GVHD as well as help with how the grafted tissue appears after it's healed."

She walked closer to the wall, trying to see whether she'd recognize any of the other faces.

Sherlock, who refused to let go of her hand, followed.

"It was very promising, apparently," she continued, "because on the cosmetic side of things, the grafts on patients who received treatment managed to look almost seamless. The grafted tissue slowly started taking on the characteristics of the area surrounding it, where before there was blatant patch scarring and discolouration both on the grafted skin and from the donour site where they'd taken the graft autologously. It was a side effect, really."

"If that's true, then Gryazny stands to make a fortune from the side effects alone. Meet the main goal, and they would redefine the market." Sherlock mused, eyebrows furrowed. "What happened?"

Molly sighed. "Cora mentioned something about, er, the trial participants getting worse instead of better; apparently it was horrid. Something about the epidermis looking great but the procedure doing the exact opposite of what it was supposed to. I can't really recall the details, I might have to get in touch with her. That night she was so plastered, I had to take her home with me, make sure she didn't get alcohol poisoning. Which made the conversation stick with me, I suppose, since she was crying so much. Poor girl."

"You don't mention her when you go on about missing your mates from Uni."

She turned and raised an eyebrow at him. "Wait. I only used to do that when you commandeer the lab and refuse to speak to anyone. I thought you never listened."

In response, Sherlock positioned her so that she was standing with her back to his chest, still facing the wall, and his chin on the top of her head. "You weren't close, and yet you looked after her. You've always been kind...even to the undeserving." He tightened his hold on her, wishing, as he often did, that he could take back the thoughtless words from the time he now refers to in his Mind Palace as "Before".

"Everyone deserves kindness, even just a little bit." she snuggled into him, settling her hands over his. Trying to change the subject to get Sherlock out of his sudden melancholy, she nodded towards the wall. "I don't know who the others in the pictures are, though. "

"John has their names, he's getting their stories."

"And John's about to get some tea." The former army doctor entered the flat just then, nodding to the couple and heading straight towards the kitchen. "You staying for tea, Molls?" he asked, taking the kettle and checking for any foreign substances inside.

"No, thank you, John. I'm off to dispose of the eyeballs Sherlock stole."

"I didn't _steal_ anything." Sherlock drawled, tightening his hold on the pathologist. "And you don't have to hurry."

"Bless you, Molls. I'm tired of being stared at by disembodied eyes whenever I open the fridge." John chuckled from the kitchen.

Molly giggled. "At least you've got a new, separate fridge for the food from now on."

John walked nearer and stared at the wall along with them. "Well, it's not for my benefit. I'm moving in with Mary this Friday."

At the news, the young woman squealed. "Oh, yes! Good for you!" She smiled at John, "Mary's been so excited."

The doctor beamed. "Yes, well, I thought it was about time. Besides, I'm planning on popping the big question this Sunday anyway. Here's hoping there won't be any dead bodies at the venue this time."

"Fingers crossed!" Molly agreed, just as Sherlock said, "A dead body would make it more memorable. And less dull."

"Sherlock!" Molly admonished him, lightly slapping the arm still wrapped around her.

"Hmmm." was all he said, before turning to John. "Molly's given us a new lead. Clinical trials gone wrong."

John reached into his jacket pocket and took out his notebook. "I heard something like that. The doctor in charge...Stamwell. He and his boss are under fire for preventing reports from surfacing that would have caused the project to be aborted."

"I can send you Cora's information if you like. You can ask her what she knows." Molly volunteered, "And I'll leave you to it. I really do need to drop off those things at the morgue before going home." She tapped Sherlock and stepped away, smiling at the two men before walking into the kitchen and retrieving the cooler. "Bye! Good luck with your case!" she waved a hand at them before turning towards the stairwell.

Sherlock followed her out, waiting until they were at the bottom of the stairs before leaning down to give her a peck on the cheek.

Before she opened the door to the street, Molly turned and raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend. "Sherlock? I noticed my books and some of my DVDs are here. Why?"

He didn't answer, just shrugged and opened the door himself.

Resigned, she walked out, only to hear Sherlock's parting shot just before the door closed:

"The fridge was for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, there won't be much more focus on the case. :-P  
> The scene was included as a sort of glimpse into their dynamic when the consulting detective is busy with a case that doesn't directly involve his pathologist.


	16. A Little Quiet

**Okay. :)**  
 **xxxM**  
.

.

.

.

 **Despite popular belief,** **  
** **Molly, I am actually** **  
** **incapable of telepathy.** **  
** **S**  
.

.

.

.

 **You'll figure it out**  
 **soon enough. :-P** **  
****xM**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**How soon?**  
 **S** **  
****.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Tonight.**

**xM**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**You said 'soon enough'**  
 **That is not.** **  
****S**

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Molly shook her head in amusement as she stood by her desk, smiling at her mobile. It's been a month and a half since Sherlock asked her to move in with him, and in that time John had moved in with Mary, proposed, and gotten a very enthusiastic 'yes'.

While his best friend moved his relationship forward, Sherlock had been waiting for his to do the same. Molly was aware that her consulting detective was getting restless, his impatient nature barely suppressed. She really didn't mean for him to suffer, but she had needed the time to increase her confidence, both in herself and in her long desired-for relationship, as well as enjoy this time together without worrying about death threats or kidnappings.

When the " Case of the Patchwork People", as John had called the case involving skin grafts, had been solved after a single day (they had determined that it was Dr. Stamwell himself doing the killing, apparently driven insane by his desire to get back at Gryazny for what he perceived was his betrayal for stopping the Aceso project altogether), she and Sherlock had made it a point to go on normal dates, well, normal for them: movie dates (when Sherlock would scoff at the plot), nights in watching crime shows on the telly (when they would both laugh at the absurdity of the blood spatter and inaccuracy of on-screen autopsy procedures), and meals out (whether it's breakfast, lunch or dinner was determined by Molly's shift or whether Sherlock had a case) discussing everything they could think off-which usually ended in either science talk or cadavers, or both. She would always go home after each with a silly smile on her face, that is, if Sherlock didn't insist she spend the night at Baker Street, or that he spend it at home with her.

When she woke up that day, however, Molly realized that her definition of home has considerably changed. "Home" was no longer a place; it was a  _person._  And when the realization hit her, she was surprised to find that although fear still reared it's head- the fear of  _is this real? will this last? is this too good to be true?-_ it was overpowered by a simple thought: _I love him._  As she lay in her bed, staring at the dust motes floating in a shaft of light her curtains had been unable to prevent from seeping into her room, she smiled.  _And he loves me too. My God, he loves me too._

So as soon as she got in to work for her day shift, she sent him a text with a single word:  _Okay_. She didn't mean to be so cryptic, but as she got out of bed and got ready, she was so overcome with excitement at the prospect of taking this next step with him that she was unable to come up with anything better.

She stared at his reply to her message, and wondered how he would react.

 _H_ _e's been slowly moving my things to his_. She had been aware that he's taken to smuggling her things to 221B. Almost half of her collection of books, CDs and DVDs were in the sitting room shelves, her apron in his kitchen, her pink and white polka dotted pillow incongruously perched in the corner of his black-and-metal chair, her soft blue knitted afghan blanket draped on his sofa (which he had taken to draping over himself whenever he was in a strop, hugging his knees with his back to the room, making him look even more like a pouting seven-year-old). Even her two plants, in their dainty pots, were now on the fire exit stairs landing by his window, and were actually looking healthier than ever.

Molly smiled to herself, remembering his evasive tactics whenever she pointed out these things: He would either shrug and play his violin, say "It's more convenient." in his  _you-really-should-already-know-this_  voice, protest the fact that she keeps stating the obvious, or simply look at her with a slight pout and wide eyes, looking like a lost little puppy (that last one was her favourite; she always ended up kissing him when he did that).

She was shaken out of her thoughts when the laboratory doors opened to reveal a disheveled consulting detective, his usual suit and coat on, his hair wind ruffled and generally looking as if he'd been in a chase. He strode over to stand before her, looking expectant.

"Well?" He scowled when she just stood staring at him.

"Well what?" A bit taken-aback, Molly was genuinely confused for a moment.

When Sherlock raised an eyebrow instead of deigning to give her an answer, she realized with a start what he was referring to. "Oh. That. Okay." she smiled up at him, eyes twinkling, a corner of her lower lip caught between her teeth. "Okay, I'll move in with you. That is, if the invitation's still open." she continued, her hands awkwardly fiddling with her ID.

"Oh." was all he said, his frown disappearing, looking blank for a moment, as if the words were taking time to sink in. "Oh,  _that._  Uhm. Yes, yes it's still open." he moved closer, his eyes locked on her hands, as if unsure where to look. "That's-good." he added, his frenetic energy subsiding, his eyes soft as it traveled upwards to meet hers.

Molly let out a small laugh. "I would have expected a more enthusiastic response." she joked, her smile growing wider.

His soft expression cracked just a little, a corner of his mouth turning up in a tiny smirk. He slowly leaned down to touch his lips to hers, soft and chaste, and then, a second one, a bit firmer, and then a third and a fourth, his eyes flicking over to meet her hooded ones in between each soft peck, only connected by their lips and their gaze. She saw him smile before he kissed her a fifth time, this one included a gentle nibble on her bottom lip, and she had to close her eyes.

As she did, she heard him let out a low hum, as if he were savouring her taste, and she responded with a hum of her own as she felt his hand wrap around her waist, fingers splayed on the small of her back, gently guiding her closer to him, the other one cupping the side of her face, his thumb caressing the line of her cheekbone just below her left eye. He deepened the kiss, urging her to open up to him as he explored her mouth, tasting her and encouraging her to do the same to him. As it grew urgent and more demanding, she wrapped her arms around him, one hand on his nape and the other in his hair, fingers rubbing his scalp, making him moan in appreciation.

His arms around her tightened, making her breath hitch, and she stood on the tips of her toes, wanting to be closer, pulling at him so that they were chest to chest, so that every breath they took between kisses were taken in unison, and they could feel each other's racing heartbeats even through their clothes.

Sherlock, humming in approval, lowered his arms to the backs of her thighs and then heaved her up, making her sit on the desk behind her, lifting her legs so that they were wrapped around his hips before traveling back up, one arm around her torso, the other at the back of her head.

When the need for air became undeniable, they broke the kiss but not their embrace, foreheads touching, gasping for breath. Molly opened her eyes and saw his still closed, mouth gulping in air, a slight furrow to his brow. He opened his eyes and she wished she could keep a picture, no, a painting, of him wearing this expression: a mixture of urgency and honest wonder and joy, and then he smiled, his unique colour-changing eyes boring into hers.

"Was that enthusiastic enough for you?" he said, making her giggle, and then giving her another gentle kiss before adding, "Thank you."

After another bout of enthusiastic snogging, Molly was finally able to answer with, "My pleasure."

* * *

Moving was simpler than Molly had initially imagined. Apparently Mycroft approved of the change, because that weekend, just as she and Sherlock were busy putting what remained of her belongings into boxes, intending to use her car instead of calling for professional movers, a man in a suit knocked on her door, Anthea standing beside him, busy with her phone as usual.

"Mr. Holmes would like to offer his assistance." she said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He'll be expecting you to send over some cake in return, Molly." to which the pathologist laughed.

She turned to Anthea and smiled. "Thank you, Anthea, tell him we'll have tea as soon as things are settled in Baker Street, would you?"

Anthea nodded with a smile of her own, and gestured to the man next to her to start loading boxes into the truck.

* * *

"There." Molly said with relief. She and Sherlock had saved the re-organizing for the sitting room for last, and she was visibly pleased with their work.

Sherlock had shown an unusual amount of enthusiasm, pointing out which shelves were more convenient for Molly to use, and clearing space for her things on the mantle, and even arranging some of her things so that they blended seamlessly with those of his.

He merely nodded in agreement with her, before once more rummaging in the box filled with miscellaneous knickknacks. His hand brushed across a smaller box, inside which was something in bubble wrap, and he lifted it, removing the tape, curious, because he had helped her pack and did not remember seeing this one.

The bubble wrap revealed a small glass globe, inside was a single artfully arranged dried flower-  _Tulipa gesneriana,_ his mind supplied.  _A freeze dried yellow tulip_.

The glass globe was a perfect sphere except for a small loop at the apex of the orb, from where it was supposed to be hung. He looked over at Molly, who had been staring at him, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. He smiled at her sentimentality, knowing where the bloom was from, and carefully felt through the rest of the items in the box, and, once he'd found it, walked over to the mantle, where he put the long, steel stand next to the skull. He then carefully attached the glass orb to the thin chain, and stood back, admiring the way it seemed to float in mid-air just above the skull, the stand's thin, simple lines aiding the illusion.

Molly moved to stand next to him, leaning into his side, her cheek on his arm. "Thank you." she whispered, as his hand sought hers.

He merely hummed in response, letting the silence of the flat settle comfortably around them, looking at Molly's reflection in the mirror, watching her for several moments as she closed her eyes and nuzzled into his arm. He clutched her closer, lifting his arm so that she was tucked to his side, her face to his chest, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, eyes still closed, his other hand on top of hers, his chin gently resting on top of her head.

After a few minutes had passed, he whispered, apropos of nothing, "I love you."

He watched in the mirror as she smiled, and then turned so that her nose was poking him. "I know." she whispered back, her arms tightening their hold, contentment evident, "I love you too."

They stood there for several moments, just basking in the moment of quiet after a busy day, when Molly felt Sherlock tense in her arms. She was about to ask why when she heard the unmistakable click of heels against the wooden stairs. Before she could say anything, the footfalls stopped, and a sultry voice spoke from the doorway to the sitting room.

"Isn't this..." the voice paused for emphasis, condescension heavy in the rich tones "..cozy."


	17. A Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's baritone sounded confused when he replied. "The one I wrote for you?" He looked at Irene, genuinely uncertain of what she's referring to, "I composed a piece for...you?"

_"Isn't this..." the voice paused for emphasis, condescension heavy in the rich tones "..cozy."_

Molly looked up at Sherlock, unsure how to react to Irene's presence. She could see the other woman in the mirror, her hair pulled up in an elegant chignon, face flawlessly made up, an obviously bespoke wine coloured dress hugging her figure. While Irene Adler was wearing pearls,  -she couldn't see, but Molly was pretty sure she'd be wearing gorgeous shoes too- and there she was, all sweaty from the move, hair in a messy bun, wearing a ratty t-shirt, barefoot with chipped nail polish on her toenails, hugging a man wearing a tailor fitted shirt and trousers, wearing shoes made from Italian leather. Molly tried hard to suppress the niggling feeling that she, not Irene, was the interloper.

She attempted to lower her arms from Sherlock's waist, eyes still down and focused on her big toe.  _Oh, great._  She thought, biting her lower lip.  _Looking good, Molly Hooper._  She hated that she admired Irene: her classic beauty, her boldness, her intelligence, her easy elegance; the fact that she and Sherlock were so much like each other.

Sensing her inner turmoil, Sherlock let her lower her arms but kept his own around her torso, kept hold of one of her hands, and surprised Molly by briefly burying his face in her hair, breathing in deeply and then kissing the top of her head as Irene looked on. After this brief display of affection he gave a long-suffering sigh and spoke without looking at their unexpected guest.

"To what do we owe this ...  _pleasure?_ " he said, giving a put-upon sigh.

"Just a friendly little visit, Sherlock." Nonplussed, Irene walked over to the sofa, sat down, and crossed her legs.

Sherlock sneered at that, visibly reluctant from breaking away from Molly while meeting the pathologist's eyes, the plea for patience evident in his own.

Molly nodded and squeezed his hand, stepping away and looking over at the Woman.

Sherlock glanced at Irene. "We're busy."

Taking the box with the last of Molly's things, he took out a CD, turned towards Molly, who had followed his lead and had set about gathering some of the detritus of the move from the various surfaces of the flat, and spoke in a much gentler tone, "Hmm, Schumann. This doesn't list his only violin concerto though."

He walked over to the stacks of CDs already in place on the shelf nearest the window and hummed to himself as he added it, rearranging the stacks by chronological order according to the composers featured in each, "Violin Concerto in D minor. I'll play a part of it for you tonight."

Molly smiled uncertainly at him. She decided to be the polite one, as usual. "I think tea's a good idea, actually. How do you take yours, Miss Adler?" she paused on her way to the kitchen, trying not to betray her agitation.

The Woman quirked an eyebrow. "Darjeeling if you have it. White, one sugar." She answered, her voice a bit patronizing, something Molly decided to ignore. She headed to the kitchen, getting the kettle ready, and taking out some of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had brought in when they arrived earlier that day.

Back in the sitting room, Irene looked to Sherlock, who had been standing back in front of the skull, delicately thumbing the glass encased bloom hanging above and to the side of it. "I'm curious to hear  _your_ composition, Sherlock, the one you wrote for me." she said, not bothering to lower her voice. "The one John said you wrote while you were mourning my death..." she smiled mischievously, "well, the first time anyway."

Upon hearing her words, Molly stilled, once again uncertain, wishing she could go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson instead of hang about in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

 _This is your home now, Molly._  she chided herself,  ** _You're_** _supposed to be here, not her._

Sherlock's baritone sounded confused when he replied. "The one I wrote for you?" He looked at Irene, genuinely uncertain of what she's referring to, " _I_  composed a piece for... _you?_ "

Irene stood up, lips quirked in amusement. "Oh, don't play coy, Sherlock. John said you composed sad music after you'd seen my so-called dead body at the morgue." She turned her head slightly in the direction of the kitchen, her eyes lingering on his. "I believe Miss Hooper assisted? You identified me by, hmmm... oh, you know."

Something in Molly's chest twinged, remembering that Christmas, and how Sherlock had asked to "see the rest of her" and identified the body by "not her face". She closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, trying to regain her patience.

"Oh." Sherlock answered, his face going blank for a moment, before continuing, a thoughtful expression growing on his face "Ah!  _Casa Lontano da Casa._ "

Irene's smile grew, her eyes twinkling as she moved closer to him, standing only a foot away so that she had to lift her gaze to meet his. "My, my, what would Miss Hooper say, giving a piece you wrote for someone else that name?  _Home Away From Home_ , how sentimental."

When Molly heard that last bit, she could not suppress a gasp, as she recalled Mycroft gesturing to a body laid out in the morgue that Christmas night so long ago:

"The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here –  _your home from home_."

She had wondered at his meaning then.  _Could it be?_  she wondered, slowly turning around to face the direction of the sitting room.

Molly found her eyes locking with Sherlock's from across the room. She watched as his gaze softened, a corner of his mouth lifting as if to say,  _You see now, don't you?_  and she lowered her chin to her chest, blushing a bit, biting her lip to prevent a wide and silly smile from forming.

"It is sentimental, I suppose. But it seems I can't help myself around Molly." he answered, his eyes still lingering on his pathologist, pleased that she understood.

The Woman, wrong footed, went back to her seat and watched as Molly came back into the room bearing the tea tray. She saw the small lopsided grin Molly was trying very hard not to show, and raised an eyebrow. She addressed Molly with a small patronizing grin, taking the teacup and drinking daintily. "Thank you for the tea, dear, now if you don't mind, the adults need to talk."

Sherlock, infuriated, turned around to glare at Irene so quickly an onlooker would have thought he hurt his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but for once, someone else beat him to it.

Molly glanced at Irene as she fixed another cup, this time for Sherlock, and spoke. "Oh, I'm an adult all right, got the job to prove it. Nothing as exciting as yours of course. I don't have the kind of confidence I'd need to have for that," she lifted her eyes to meet Irene's still smirking face, meeting it with a sincere smile of her own.

"Or the looks, for that matter." she continued, straightening and handing the suddenly quiet Sherlock his cup of tea. "No, my job suits me, working with the dead: cutting up dead bodies, finding out what killed them, things like that. It's pretty morbid, but interesting. Why, just the other day," she walked back and prepared her own cup, stirring in the milk and sugar as Irene looked on, eyebrows rising higher with every word spoken.

"I had to check with the CDC, because a body came into the morgue and he'd apparently been poisoned with dimethylmercury, highly toxic and of course rather tightly restricted." Molly shook her head ruefully as she took a seat in Sherlock's chair. "I only really thought to check for it because I saw my own small vial in the lab; used it for research on a recent paper I submitted to the BMJ. Apparently the poor man's nephew, who held a grudge, was a toxicologist, and simply added a few drops to his coffee undetected, because it's colourless, with only the slightest hint of sweetness to it. Virtually undetectable. He died after a few months, and nobody really understood why." She took a sip from her cup before waving her hand. "Oh, sorry, you were saying?"

After she'd spoken, Molly looked around to the others to find Irene's smile had faltered; while Sherlock was wearing a wide, slightly smug grin, eyes twinkling down at the pathologist in a mixture of mirth and obvious pride. "Yes, Miss Adler, do hurry up and speak already, Molly and I still have much to do before  _dinner_." he said, eyes fixed on Molly's, expression going mischievous.

A disconcerted Irene cleared her throat, very carefully set aside the tea she'd stopped drinking the moment Molly got halfway through her story, and spoke, "Now that the business with Kate is done, your brother insists I leave Britain at once. So tomorrow I'll be off to America."

Sherlock perched himself next to Molly, slightly leaning into her as he took a drink. "I fail to see how any of this concerns me." he dryly noted.

"America is a big place, full of people, so many different cultures blending together, and therefore, so many conflicts arise. Some lead to fascinating crimes, and since I have found that I am, in turn, fascinated by crime, I thought you might like to...expand the business there, so to speak, and go with me for a while...I'm confident of my own skills, but who's to say I won't need to learn a thing or two from The Master himself." she threw him a meaningful grin, emphasizing the word 'Master'. "I must admit it would be a change from my usually more  _aggressive_  pursuits." she finished, leaning back in the sofa and lowering her lids, her words heavy with innuendo. "That is, if Miss Hooper allows it."

Molly nodded, "Oh, I don't  _allow_  Sherlock anything, he's a genius, he makes up his own mind about things." she took a bite of a biscuit she'd taken earlier and pondered the offer. "You're right, America's really a good place to encounter new cases in."

"I have no intention of leaving London again soon. The two years I've spent away is enough for now, I would think." Sherlock answered firmly, and then turned to look at Molly. "There's a lot of wasted time to make up for, and I intend to do just that. Besides, Miss Adler, you're hardly in need of my assistance. You said yourself you're adequate, although we both know you'd be bored of crime soon enough." He then stood and gestured to the door. "Now then, that's settled, excuse us, we are really quite busy."

"Sherlock..." Irene, her composure failing, stood, and moved as if to walk nearer to him, but abruptly stopped as Sherlock looked down meet Molly's eyes, a genuine smile on his face. Seeing this, her own expression hardened, and she spoke, her words barely loud enough to be heard. "I seem to recall you saying that love is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

Sherlock looked up and met her raised eyebrow. Then Sherlock tilted his head and earnestly said, "But we're not playing a game, Miss Adler. There are no sides."

Irene turned and left, and as she reached the landing, she heard Molly follow.

"Irene," Molly called out, her voice soft but firm. "You don't owe Sherlock anything because of what happened with Kate." At the Woman's surprised face, she hurriedly added, "I mean, you don't need to prove you're cleverness. We all know you are. Clever, really clever. You said the first time we met that you have a girlfriend, so I know this whole thing with Sherlock isn't about trying to get him into a relationship with you."

She paused, looking at Irene intently before she continued, "You don't have to play games with him because you don't owe him anything. I mean, you've helped him out several times before, with- - with Moriarty. So if anything, you're even now."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Molly shrugged. "I'm not sure. To be honest, I wish we could have met under better circumstances."

Irene gave her a rueful smile. "I'm starting to wish that too."

* * *

After the Woman had gone, Sherlock and Molly decided to forgo what little unpacking was left to do. Molly took a shower while Sherlock pretended to pout at being made to wash the tea things. When he saw Molly emerge from the bathroom, he called out, "A threat of poisoning, Molly? I didn't think you had it in you."

This made Molly pause, walk over to where Sherlock stood next to the sink, clutch the towel closer to herself, and look at her boyfriend with wide-eyed innocence. "I did no such thing!"

Sherlock smirked, and merely shrugged, "Dimethylmercury? A colourless and slightly sweet smelling poison that's almost undetectable and which you happen to have access to? Please. You chose that story for a reason. It's not even your most recent case."

Shrugging, she answered, "It's just the first that came to my mind, that's all."

His smile grew, "Get dressed my would-be poisoner, or we might not make it out of the flat for dinner."

Molly only hummed, turning to go into what was formerly Sherlock's room. "I made no threats to anyone. You're simply reading too much into an innocent anecdote."

"If you say so. There's really no way to prove you made a threat anyway."

"That's true." she called out from inside the room, opening the wardrobe. "But I still didn't knowingly threaten anyone with anything."

"I didn't say I disapprove."

"Of course you wouldn't."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock walked to their bedroom door, wiping his hands with a towel. "It was rather exhilarating."

Molly grinned over her shoulder at him, busy with taking out clothes to wear. "Really?"

"Yes." he answered, eyes glinting. "and also very... _stirring._ "

At that, Molly laughed and threw a clothes-hanger at him. "Sherlock!"

"There's no need for violence, I was only stating facts." he said, his grin widening as he threw the towel away and slowly approached her, kicking the door shut on the way.

"What are you doing?" Molly gasped, tightening her hold on the towel she was wearing, a blush overtaking her cheeks.

Sherlock didn't answer, only continuing to move closer. When he was only a hair's breadth away from Molly, he leaned to speak into her ear.

"I think dinner can wait, don't you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, and commented!  
> Please expect to read more from me as I'm currently in the middle of another Sherlolly story I have yet to post.
> 
> If you have any Sherlolly story suggestions, you're welcome to leave a comment or message here, or send me one through liberiadsomnia.tumblr.com/ask .


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